Last of the Edhel
by HardlyFatal
Summary: HP-LotR. An elf had never before had any trouble guarding an important secret in the heart of an ancient forest, but then, he'd never before met Hermione Granger. DROPPED
1. Chapter 1

Last of the Edhel, Chapter 1

_By CinnamonGrrl, for Technoelfie_

He squinted as he looked up at the sickle moon, though his sight was not impaired in the least; perhaps by squinting he would be able to discern its secrets, the mysteries it had hidden from him for so long. He sighed, and relaxed the muscles of his face. Still Ithil would insist on keeping her own stubborn counsel; even after doing his duty for millennia, it would appear he was not deemed worthy. Ever was such a moon a harbinger of ill tidings, even of doom. The elf was determined that it would not be **his** doom, and so had his bow in his hand as he walked through the trees he had called his home for thousands of years.

Once it had been known as Eryn Lasgalen (and indeed, he had named his only child after it); when evil intruded into its borders, both Men and Elves had called it Mirkwood. With the dissipation of that evil it was known as Greenwood the Great until immortal lips were no longer present in Middle-Earth to call it thus, and mortal ears tired of hearing it.

Time passed and age after age slipped by. The continent was sundered once more, sundered and shifted and twisted until little of it resembled its ancient form, and all that remained of his once-vast kingdom was this modestly-sized forest in the north. One by one his kin made for the west, and finally he alone of all Edhel remained in Arda. Greenwood shrank as Men procreated as avidly as brown rabbits, and magical creatures fled to its sanctuary as their habitat was invaded, acquired, overrun. Unicorns and centaurs, two of the newer breeds of magical animals, flocked there, as did any and every other odd being he could think of.

A castle was built nearby, a castle meant to be an institution of learning. It was no coincidence that it was so close to him and the precious treasure he guarded; was that treasure not the source of all their power? And was it not appropriate that the source should be in such proximity to those who studied how to use it? As children began to come from all around this new incarnation of Greenwood, this England/Scotland/Wales/Ireland place, their curious natures began to take them into the dark places, the dank places, the dangerous places. There were a few deaths, and the headmaster of the school renamed Greenwood a last time: the Forbidden Forest it was called, and the Forbidden Forest it became.

He gave up his dominion over it, and within a few mere centuries it was as untamed and wild as it had been before the Eldar had awoken under the stars. Unrestrained by his civilizing influence, Men became unable to traverse its paths, overgrown as they were by savage tangles of trees, vines, undergrowth. And even had they persevered, it was unlikely that they would survive much past their first smug self-congratulations for overcoming the vegetation, for there were creatures in the Forest far more savage than the trees could ever hope to be…

Many would be unnerved to live, alone, surrounded by thousands of creatures that would not blink an eye in remorse before killing him, but he found the presence of those creatures comforting and familiar—much more so than those increasingly bizarre Men who **would** insist on ceaselessly trying to destroy each other and themselves.

"At least these creatures merely follow their instincts," he might mutter to himself of an afternoon. "Who knows what motivations drive Men?" Certainly not he; never had he been able to comprehend his son's fondness for the other races. Hobbits had not seemed too unpleasant, he recalled of his brief sojourns with those tiny people, and even Dwarves were not an insurmountable mystery, but Men… he shook his head. If he lived as long as Manwë himself, he would never be able to fathom the Second-born.

A howl echoed in the distance: a single wolf, and from the vibration of his cadence, it would seem he'd sighted his prey for the evening. Because of the sickle moon, he knew it was not a werewolf, but an elf was proof against that beast's contagion in any case. Just a regular sort of wolf, then, on a regular sort of prowl. Why, then, did the tiny hairs on his nape prickle as they did when trouble was afoot? _It must be the sickle moon_, he mused, a hint of derision tinging his thoughts. Yes, the sickle moon and its hidden knowledge, the secrets it refused to share.

He had not survived a score of thousands of years by permitting mysteries to abound; not in his realm, diminished though it might be by now. Shouldering his bow, he leapt up to grasp a branch in his hands and swung himself up into the tree's crown; his footfall was light as a bird's as he moved silently from tree to tree through the forest, his path unerring as an elven arrow as he followed the cry of the wolf.

There it was below him, brindle coat shaggy and silvered by moonlight. It crouched back in the familiar posture of attack, ivory fangs bared at its prey. The prey, however, did not seem to have the good sense to be afraid, because she stood there, glaring defiantly at the creature who would shortly make her its dinner. She bore no weapon, and was dressed most ridiculously in a short, flimsy frock and perfectly ridiculous little sandals. In her hand she held a slender stick of polished wood—_ash, was it? Ah, for a brighter moon!—_and as he watched, she pointed it at the wolf and said the words to a hex that, in other circumstances, would have rendered the beast unconscious.

He sighed inaudibly. Did not Hogwarts **ever** have a professor that informed its students that their magic would not work so deep in the Forest, so close to the secret he hid in its heart? It seemed that at least once a generation, there was one witch or wizard who managed to penetrate this far into his realm and get themselves injured or killed because they were woefully unprepared to do anything but shout increasingly desperate jinxes and curses as they were attacked.

This time, however, he was near, and he would prevent this foolish girl from meeting her untimely end. Just as the wolf sprang at her, he dropped from the tree to land between the beast and its prey, unsheathing his long white knife on the way down so it was bared and glinting in the moonlight by the time his feet touched the soft moss floor of the woods. The wolf skidded to a stop, snarling in displeasure.

"This meal would not sit well in your stomach," he told the wolf in Sindarin, his voice like silk as it spoke the sibilant language. "I suggest you find another."

The wolf narrowed its yellow eyes at the elf. Long it had lived in this Forest, and ever had it been aware of the magnificent life-force that protected it, of the ruler who chose not to rule. It would not balk at this request, for it knew that did it persist, the elf would have no qualms about killing it. With a movement that might have been a bow, the wolf turned and loped away into the night. Soon even the faint sound of its footfalls had faded into the velvet blackness that swathed them, and the elf straightened to his full height from the taut, ready-to-spring posture he'd assumed.

He turned to face the girl, but his head blocked the feeble light thrown by the sickle moon, and he wished to see her as clearly as possible… stepping to the side, the only sign of his surprise was the blink of his eyes as he regarded her with a single, sweeping look. She was not a child, though she had appeared as one at first glance; though short, she was bosomy, with rounded hips and a face filled with a woman's confidence. Her hair was a dark, untamed cloud around her proudly-held head, and brown eyes gleamed at him with undisguised fascination.

He was unsurprised when her first words were not ones of gratitude. "Who are you?" she asked, softening her tone so it seemed not so much a demand, but he could tell she was near to dancing from curiosity about him. Then, more quietly as she glimpsed the elegant shape of his ears and also realized that, quite independently of the moonlight, he was glowing faintly, "**What** are you?" She seemed quite thoroughly in awe, gazing up at him with eyes as large and dark as a doe's, and he could barely keep from smiling at her extreme youth.

He would not answer her; he never answered any of those few who met him. Invariably, they asked him his name, his race, his purpose; all were disappointed when no such information was forthcoming. He squinted up once more; the moon was now on the wane, its sharp points not so clearly defined against the slowly lightening sky. Best to return her to the edge of the forest now, or it would be full daylight when they reached the school's grounds and he was loathe to risk being seen.

He stepped close to her; her gaze, which had never wavered from his face, now flicked down to his lips and he heard the faint hitch in her breath. _Interesting_, he thought. She was attracted to him. Involuntarily his own gaze dropped to her chest; it had been many years since he had indulged in physical pleasure and he felt a moment's wild longing, quickly and ruthlessly suppressed.

"Yon school is not the only home of magic," he told her, and touched a fingertip to each of her eyelids. Immediately she slumped against him, unconscious. Sweeping her up into his arms and steadfastly ignoring the fact that his fingertips were brushing the side of her soft, plump breast, Thranduil Oropherion began to stride through the Forgotten Forest toward its eastern edge, toward the outmost grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

_One Month Earlier_

Hermione Granger had much in common with her namesake. Both she and the female lead of one of Shakespeare's lesser-loved plays were dedicated, patient, and loyal. Both were brave, with untapped stores of strength they could draw upon in times of trouble. Both were utterly committed to sacrificing themselves for those they loved.

Most importantly, both were willing to commit a significant deception, deception to the point of treason, to do what they believed was right.

Seven years ago, fresh out of Hogwarts, Hermione had been offered a choice position within the Ministry. Assured, however, by Arthur Weasley that it would have been exactly the wrong sort of thing for her as it involved things like diplomacy (another word for lying, to her way of thinking) and daily board meetings (death by prolonged _Tarantallegra_ would be preferable), she'd refused and instead applied for a job in the Department of Transfiguration Research. Three years into her tenure there, she'd made headlines by figuring out a way to modify a spell, even one in mid-air, into something entirely different.

Mere weeks later she'd made more headlines when, during the Battle of Hogsmeade, she herself transformed the _Crucio_ aimed at Harry by Draco Malfoy into _Rictusempra_. Instead of seeing his opponent writhe at his feet in agony, the younger Malfoy was greatly consternated to find The Boy Who Lived giggling up at him from the ground, tears of mirth flowing from behind round glasses to pool in the unruly hair. So distracted was he by this turn of events that Draco completely forgot that the other two-thirds of the so-called Dream Team flanked him, and Ron easily nailed him with a _Petrificus Totalis_ before forcing a Disapparation on the other man, straight to the Ministry of Magic's special incarceration area.

Then it was Ron's turn to be distracted—he turned to Harry, face filled with exultation, to perform _Finite Incatatem_ and thus end his friend's enforced tickling fit. Enraged at the sight of his son being whisked away to justice, Lucius Malfoy attacked. Hermione scarcely had the time to intercept his _Avada Kedavra_ with her own fledgling spell. "_Transformatio Maleficarum_!" she'd screamed, and the sickly green light that arced toward Ron had wavered and turned an equally sickly shade of yellow. When it struck Ron, he slumped at once to the ground and was still.

Hermione then ended the spell on Harry; serious once more, he hiccupped from laughing so much and leapt to his feet. Harry launched himself bodily at Lucius, all magic forgotten as he proceeded to pummel the man with fists and feet in revenge for his friend. Lucius was a fair hand at wizardly dueling but in a physical contest, he was no match for the young, strong Quidditch player and soon just clung to consciousness, both eyes blackened, lips split, nose broken, and ribs cracked as Hermione dragged Harry away.

"Let me go," Harry demanded, eyes wild as he strained against her. "He's killed Ron!"

"He hasn't!" she protested, trying to make him look. "Ron's still alive." And so he was. Alive, but not aware. Never again aware.

Hermione's spell had lessened the force of Malfoy's _Avada_, but significant damage had still been caused. Five years later, Ron Weasley reposed in the St. Mungo's ward for permanent disabilities, catatonic and without any moments of lucidity whatsoever. And five years later, Hermione Granger was no closer to finding a way to bring him back than she had been that first horrible day she'd spent by her friend's bedside, watching his family stare with wide, shocked eyes at Ron's slack face and unseeing gaze. That day, she'd vowed to find a way to restore his mind.

A year ago, after a particularly devastating raid by Death Eaters on Godric's Hollow in Wales, a top-secret committee had begun to explore the possibility of somehow harnessing the force of magic itself, called the Source. Some Ministry officials wanted to isolate magic from those who would use it for evil; others desired to employ it to enhance the abilities of those on the side of good. There was a great deal of dissent in the ranks, but all agreed that it would be beneficial to have the Source under their control, preferably before Voldemort and his followers got the same idea and tried to beat the Ministry to the punch, as it were. But first the Source had to be located.

As The Boy Who Lived, Harry was automatically made privy to even this most secret of secrets, which he promptly shared with Hermione. It wasn't long before she thought of using the Source to help Ron; for years she'd tried to find a way to duplicate Lily Potter's success at channeling her love into a force of protection and healing for her son, and so cure Ron's infirmity, but without success—even all the devotion of the Weasley clan and that of Ron's best friends did not seem to be enough to bring him back.

But the Source would be. Hermione knew this, as certainly as she knew that the sun would rise the next morning, and she also knew that she had to find it first. If the Ministry got their hands on it, she'd never get access to the Source, would never be able to bring Ron back. And so, with the single-minded (Harry called it 'simple-minded') determination that was her hallmark, Hermione applied herself to the quest for the Source of all magic in the world.

A year later, Hermione still wasn't having much success. She made no secret of her commitment to helping Ron, and so swiftly became a common fixture in the Ministry's archives (access granted because of her association to Harry, of course). The greater part of her free time was spent wandering the stacks; sometimes she'd plow methodically through the books, beginning with the first book on the first shelf in the first row; other times she'd take the random approach and simply grab whatever was closest. It was the latter she employed this day; she reached out and took hold of the first dusty, leather-bound spine with which her hand came in contact, then sat right down on the floor and began to read.

This book was no help at all, that one simply listed all the ingredients one would have had in a well-stocked potions cupboard in the year 1643. She pushed back a frizzy hank of hair—_sodding humidity, I've no patience at all_—and reached for what she was sure would be yet another useless book. Her wand's feeble light was barely enough to see by, and she had to squint quite hard to make out the nearly illegible Fraktur script of which the Germans were so fond. Distracted by how her bottom half was slowly becoming numb from sitting on the hard stone floor, she translated it absently, not really expecting it to make much sense nor be of any help to her.

After another stultifying hour, she stood with a groan and placed her hands in the small of her back to stretch backwards. Her wand chose that moment to drop the _Lumos_ spell she'd placed on it, and the archive fell into utter darkness. _You'd think the Ministry would have some sort of lighting system down here_, she thought sourly, and bent over to retrieve her wand. Unfortunately, she bumped her backside into the steep tower of books behind her, sending it toppling over with a crash. The binding of one book fell apart, scattering pages into drifts around Hermione's feet. With a sigh, she recast _Lumos_ and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on, before plopping back on the floor to try and throw the book into some sort of order.

An hour later, all discomfort forgotten, Hermione held her wand clenched between her teeth as she read and reread a single passage. The pages of the book had not been numbered, and reassembling it was slow going in the extreme. She'd taken to scanning the pages to see which followed which, and somewhere around the six hundredth page had found something that made her breath catch in her throat.

"Though many shall seek, none shall find, for the Keeper shall use the magic of his kin to protect the Source," the passage began, and continued with a lengthy incantation in a language Hermione had never seen (but which was conveniently translated into phonetic Hochdeutsch) for a method of tracing the magic inherent within each wizard and witch back to the Source itself.

Hermione sat very still, staring numbly at the pages for a full minute before snapping back to alertness. She had to get this book out of the archive, out of the Ministry. "_Reducio_," she whispered, suddenly very unnerved by the enormity of what she'd discovered, then slipped the now-tiny volume into her pocket. With a last glance at where she'd crouched in the near-darkness for hours, and satisfied that nothing looked amiss, she left the archive.

The archives were on level eight of the Ministry's complex, on of the lesser-used floors, and she felt sweat break out anew on her brow and prickle between her shoulder blades as she made her way down the deserted corridors toward the lift. She'd never liked breaking rules, and usually went out of her way to follow them. However, there had always been notable exceptions, and they'd always been for her friends. This was no different; in fact, it was far more worthy, this rebellion of hers, than any of the smaller regulations she'd flaunted whilst in school.

_For Ron_, she thought over and over, fixing in her mind the memory of his face the day they'd graduated. He'd been so proud, happy and laughingly swatting away his mother's excited fussing. _He can be that way again; I can do this for him_. Hermione curled her fingers around the shrunken book, gripping tightly, feeling its little corners poke into the tender skin of her palm, and when the lift doors opened to reveal a half-dozen people staring expectantly at her to get on, she lifted her chin and met their gazes without hesitation. _For Ron._


	2. Chapter 2

Last of the Edhel, Chapter 2

_by CinnamonGrrl, for Technoelfie_

Hermione took a month of long-overdue personal time from work. Knowing she'd never get any peace if she remained in the apartment she shared with Lavender Brown, she told her roommate some feeble excuse and holed herself up in Harry's apartment in London, the better to study the book and discover some way of using it to find the Source. Since Harry himself was off on some Auror mission or another, and unlikely to return to his home anytime soon, Hermione let herself in with the key he'd given her years ago. For the next month, she did her duty by her parents and the Weasleys; weekly visits to them and to Ron were the only distractions she permitted from her work. Her notes, organized in piles around the lounge, and then the kitchen, and then the bedroom, were covered in arcane symbols and the near-illegible scrawl she adopted when on the very hot trail of an exceptionally important idea.

The first week, she figured out a spell to make the magic of an individual visible. Casting it on herself, she was both disconcerted and thrilled to see that her body was emitting a faint bluish-grey glow that floated mistily around her. "Would have thought that magic would look more dramatic," she commented aloud to Crookshanks II as she stared in the mirror, then lifted an arm to study the phenomenon more closely. The cat, who Hermione had adopted after his predecessor had passed on to his reward, merely gave her a kitty-headbutt on the ankle and stalked off to see whether his empty food dish had miraculously become less empty in the last hour.

A week after that, Hermione unearthed a few messily-scrawled sentences that she could use to modify _Prior Incantato_, thus revealing the even deeper origination of magic. When the modification was ready, she cast it using a detailed map of the world. Little blue-grey lights began to glow in various spots round the globe but to her immense shock and pleased surprise, instead of some exotic locale like a Mayan temple or primitive African cave or remote Himalayan mountaintop, the strongest flow of magical energy was concentrated dead in the centre of the Forbidden Forest that bordered Hogwarts.

"What were the odds of that?" Hermione murmured to Crookshanks, eyebrows lifted in amazement. He was, however, somewhat tougher to impress and merely fell asleep again. The more she thought about it, however, the more it made sense—Hogwarts was heavily protected, and boasted some of the finest witches and wizards of each generation to help protect the Source, and the forest itself was very dangerous and inhospitable. _You'd have to be crazy to go there voluntarily_, she thought with a faint smile, thinking of all the times she, Harry, and Ron had indeed ventured into its gloomy, menacing depths.

She could Disapparate to Hogsmeade, walk to Hogwarts, and walk into the forest—that part was easy. The difficult part would be withstanding the danger that teemed within the woods—if the centaurs didn't get her, Grawp might. Or the werewolves, vampires, spiders… the list went on and on. Hermione was no idiot; she knew she stood little chance of surviving alone in the Forbidden Forest for long, no matter how skilled she was in defending herself. Her talents lay in the conceptual, not the actual. She'd never been the best dueler in the club, nor even during any of the myriad battles she'd fought at Harry's side through the years.

Briefly, Hermione considered telling Harry-- he would come with her in a heartbeat, she knew—but just as quickly dismissed the idea. For an Auror, Harry was a hopelessly bad liar, and she didn't want to get him into trouble, or worse, jeopardize her mission if he somehow blabbed what they were doing to the wrong ears. No, Harry would have to learn about what she was doing at the same time as everyone else-- which returned her to her original quandary. If she could simply Disapparate to the Source itself, she felt confident that the situation could be withstood.

Part of Hermione, the impetuous and eager part, wanted to scoff at the danger involved in pursuing her new information to the Source. The sensible, responsible part—that which had far greater control over her, thankfully—made her sit and stay where she was, soothed her fierce disappointment, and assured her that there was a solution to this dilemma. She just hadn't found it yet. But she would; the third week was spent in deep research, this time on how to adapt the Four-Point spell to pinpoint the end of the etheric trail of magic to its Source, and also on how to Disapparate directly to that end.

Exactly one month after she'd left the archive of the Ministry of Magic with the stolen book secreted in her pocket, Hermione performed the series of spells—the Muggle part of her wondering if there were some way she could create a macro and thus execute them all in a more efficient manner—and with a final, deep breath, Disapparated to where the Four-Point spell indicated.

Immediately, she knew she was a complete dunderhead. No matter how blasted hot it was in the rest of the United Kingdom, here in these murky woods it was cool, with a dampness rising from the ground that began immediately to seep into her scantily clothed limbs. "_Lumos_," she whispered, raising her wand. To her intense dismay, nothing happened. "_Lumos_!" she repeated, her voice rising with alarm. Hermione turned the wand toward her face, staring at it in bafflement, but before she could even begin to figure out why it wasn't working, she heard a low growl behind her. Spinning, she found an enormous grey wolf crouched there, fangs bared and gleaming lethally in the dim moonlight.

Automatically, Hermione brought her wand up. "_Stupefy_!" she cried, aiming at it, but once again nothing happened, except that the wolf tensed its legs to spring at her. Barely had its paws left the ground, however, when something—or someone, rather—dropped to the ground from the tree above her head. The figure was male, tall and lithe, and even in the poor light of the almost-new moon she could tell his long, arrow-straight hair was pale. He had what seemed to be a machete in his left hand, and strapped to his back was a bow and full quiver.

_I've been saved by Robin Hood_, she thought dazedly as she heard her saviour say a few words to the wolf in a musical, utterly foreign language. The creature actually seemed to nod in comprehension, and skulked away like a shade into the night. Hermione knew she should be shocked that he could communicate with the wolf, but there was something about him that was such a part of the forest that she found herself completely unsurprised. With every breath he took, his body declared him intrinsic to the woods surrounding them; with every waft of cool night air on her skin and whisper of tree branches and rustle of small creatures, she knew the wood and the creatures in it accepted him as its liege.

Then "Robin" turned to her, his face shadowed by the moon to his back. "Who are you?" Hermione asked, trying to be polite, but her usual lust for knowledge was fired and she wanted, no, **needed** to know more about this man. The analytical part of her brain, which never seemed to stop functioning no matter how agitated the rest of her, noted that there was something about his ears that wasn't quite right, and if she weren't mistaken—which she rarely was, when observing—he was… was he **glowing**? Before she could bite back the rude words, they slipped from her mouth. "**What** are you?"

He shifted then, the moon illuminating him with its faint creamy light, and her first glimpse of his face was like a painting come to life.

The best-looking man she'd ever seen was Draco Malfoy  (though Hermione quite believed she would die before admitting to that opinion). Universally proclaimed as the pinnacle of wizardly beauty whilst attending Hogwarts, as years passed, his looks had only improved. It had broken hearts all over England when he'd been sent to Azkaban for his part in the Battle of Hogsmeade. Even his mugshot had made the girls swoon with its chiseled features, lock of tinsel-like hair falling rakishly over his brow, and lovely mouth twisted into a seductive smirk.

The man before her made Draco Malfoy look about half as attractive as a Dementor.

His hair was the exact shade of expensive champagne, and his eyes were the colour of the mist-shrouded dawn-- grey, but also pearl and charcoal and silver and slate and stone. They were ancient, and they were laughing at her, even if the exquisitely formed mouth was not. He stepped closer to her, and she caught a whiff of his scent: a combination of earth and pine and sky and night, and Hermione was gripped for the first time in her life with the nearly overwhelming desire—no, the **need**—to kiss a man. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she wondered if they'd be hard or soft beneath her own.

"Yon school is not the only home of magic," he said then, his voice like a rivulet of silk whispering over her skin. She barely had time to shiver at the feel of it before he brushed a fingertip to each of her eyelids, the sensation making sparks form behind them as they closed. The sparks faded immediately, and so did consciousness; Hermione was dimly aware of strong arms coming around to keep her from tumbling to the forest floor, and then there was nothing.

_Ron was running._

_After all, trapped as he was in his own body, locked into a never-ending autumn day at a deserted version of Hogwarts in his mind, there was nothing else to do. He couldn't leave the castle, though many times he'd tried. Sometimes, looking out a window, he could see other people on the grounds: his family, his friends. Strangers he assumed were doctors trying to help him, trying to release him from his mental prison. He tried calling to them, but they were always too far away to hear him. Frustration and rage would fill him on those occasions—indeed, he didn't seem to need a catalyst for his rage and frustration, it was just always there, simmering inside him—and so, for lack of anything else to do with himself, he would run._

_He was running now._

_Up from the great doors at the entrance to the castle, down a stone corridor, up a flight of stairs that shifted in mid-ascension. Weightless, gripping the banister that felt both solid and insubstantial at the same time under his grasping fingers, he felt the breeze of motion waft across his face as he swung on the stairs to a new position. Scarcely waiting for the steps to lock into place, he leapt forward and took off down that corridor. The destination didn't seem to matter, only the movement. It was imperative, somehow, that he not stop. As if the entire world would crumble away if he stopped._

_And so he ran._

_Letting his feet choose for him where he went. Ron ran until he came to the Astronomy Tower and loped up the steps two at a time. At the top, he skidded to a halt and gazed out over the rolling grounds of Hogwarts. Squinting against the sun that filled his eyes but which, curiously, did not feel warm to him, he spotted a figure in the distance, running full-tilt toward the Forbidden Forest. The banner of bushy hair that streamed out behind the figure confirmed his suspicions: it was Hermione. He wanted to call out to her, to make her stop, to keep her safe. But there was no 'safe' anymore, he knew. Not since that fateful day, when he'd been wrenched from his life and locked within his own mind, had anything been safe. _

_Ron was fully aware of what had happened to him; he'd been hit by Malfoy with an Avada, and Hermione had scarcely managed to keep it from killing him. He had felt the icy-hot stream of energy hit him, felt the two magics fighting, one destructive, one protective. Had felt Hermione's spell vanquish Malfoy's killing curse. And he had felt it all within the same split second before his consciousness had been roughly shoved to the back of his mind and sealed away as securely as any secret in a vault at Gringott's. _

Ron missed his parents, his brothers, his sister. He missed Harry; he missed Hermione. It was agonizing to be able to see them from the Astronomy Tower, but unable to speak to them, though he'd shouted himself hoarse so many times trying, always trying. He tried again this time, willing Hermione to hear him, but she just continued toward the forest.

_Sometimes he hated her for doing this to him. Better to have died, Ron reasoned, than to spend all day running through the castle, surrounded by cold grey stone, by shadows and dust and cobwebs from spiders that never existed. There was no one here, nothing alive or moving besides himself. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and even the books in the library couldn't be read. There was nothing to do but run. _

_He was bloody well sick of running._

_Hermione's figure disappeared into the trees, then, and Ron sighed. He knew she was trying to find a way to help him, and wondered idly if she were doing it for him, or because she couldn't resist a challenge. He supposed it didn't matter, really. Not like he could do anything about it, either way. Until she succeeded in whatever she was trying to do to bring him back, or until some kind soul took pity on him and finished him off, there was nothing he could do._

_Nothing but run, that is._

_A faint breeze swirled around him, caressing his cheek for the briefest of moments. Ron covered the spot with his hand, willing the sensation to last, but all too soon it faded, just like everything else. With a resigned sigh, he turned and ran down the stairs._

At Ron's bedside at Saint Mungo's, Hermione had finished whispering her plans into his ear and brushed a kiss over his wan face.  "I'll be back soon, Ron," she murmured. "Soon, you'll be awake again."


	3. Chapter 3

Last of the Edhel, Chapter 3

_by CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie_

As the days passed, Hermione was but dimly aware of waking up in her own bed when she'd last remembered sleeping at Harry's, but it didn't really bother her any. Each morning, Hermione would lever herself from the bed and wander out into the lounge, pushing a sheaf of hair off her face and peering blearily around the flat. In her absence, Lavender had reverted to the slovenliness that had made her the bane of all their roommates back at Hogwarts, and every available surface was covered with detritus or an ever-thickening layer of dust. The demilune table by the front door held a sizable stack of unopened mail and a tangle of keys carelessly thrown onto its formerly polished surface; the squashy armchair was heaped with clean but unfolded laundry, and the settee boasted no fewer than three mountains of newspapers and magazines, none of which had been opened even once.

A strange, almost languorous apathy filled her when she attempted to reason why she kept waking up at home with mouth dry and head vile, as if she'd drunk far too much firewhiskey the previous night: a pressing, insistent indifference that turned her interest to other, less wearying things, and so she found herself cleaning her flat from top to bottom. Even the thought of Ron and his cure evoked a mere vague wish she could do something about it, before dashing back to Harry's.

The only thing that seemed clear to her, clear like crystal, like tears, were the too-brief moments she'd spent in the company of the angel. Or perhaps he was a god. Certainly, at least, an Adonis…. whichever. The classification didn't seem to matter in this muzzy world of half-fantasy, half-memory. It simply wasn't possible that something so beautiful, so ephemeral, could exist. Hermione's mind recalled things about him as if they'd been part of a fever dream: just a flash of gold as his hair caught the moonlight, or the barest glimpse of agile limbs as he sprang to the forest floor beside her: his body placed between hers and imminent danger, keeping her safe. He rarely spoke to her that she could recall, and then just words of warning, but the emotions that rolled off him were like waves on the ocean: consternation, certainly, and increasing confusion. Frustration. And, the last day or two, a growing interest. _That makes two of us,_ she thought wryly.

Each new night seemed to find Hermione with another inspiration for how to prepare for it— _might be cold in the deep forest_, she considered, and bundled up accordingly. _The Lumos spell is simply no substitute for a good old-fashioned Muggle torch… and what if I meet with some creature that was unresponsive to my defensive spells?_ With that thought in mind, she unearthed one of Harry's smaller weapons from the chest at the foot of his bed and stuffed that into the pack she'd realized she'd likely need on her jaunt to the Forbidden Forest.

It was only later in the week that she began to remember snippets of actually being in the woods. She supposed she should be worried, but as soon as she began to follow that train of thought, the lassitude filled her once more. If she just lay back and let the memories come instead of trying to force them, strange and wondrous images would flit before her mind's eye: trees, immense and stately, a solid canopy over her head. A wolf, at first deadly and menacing, then increasingly… bored? The recollections began to vanish like dew in the sun as soon as she turned her attention to them, and impatience rose in her chest like a coiled snake.

"Oh, who cares," Hermione snapped at herself. Little point in mooning over nonsense when there was work to be done. Completing her nightly packing venture, she let out a slow breath before Disapparating.

The now-familiar shadows swept down over her as soon as she appeared in the Forbidden Forest. A low mist was swirling around her ankles this almost-moonless, windless night, and a frisson of fear rippled down her spine at the sensation of being alone in a vast, dangerous place. Cursing herself for ten kinds of a fool, she busied herself in unpacking her bag, contemplating all the while simply returning to Harry's flat and finding some other way to help Ron. Plunking down between two tree roots, she leant back against the trunk and tried not to appear too hideously eager and obvious about waiting for the glorious creature who'd been haunting her dreams.

No sooner had the horrible possibility that he was a mere figment of her imagination crossed her mind than he appeared as suddenly as if he'd Apparated. Tall and lean, with the bow and knife strapped to his back a clear reminder that he was a hunter, his lips were twisted into a delicious smirk.

"I see you attend me, milady," he said.

As if she were a fish on hook, as if pulled by a string, Hermione came to her feet, unable to disguise the elation she felt at feasting her gaze on him once more. "Oh," she gasped, her voice a mere breath of sound in the still, hushed forest that surrounded them. "I knew you were real, I knew it."

Thranduil peered through the woods and, for the first time in many years, felt… something different. What could it be? It was not anger, nor was it sadness. He was not amused, nor was he pleased. It was a most puzzling emotion: he was agitated, as if he'd been halted in the middle of some important act and impatiently awaited returning to it. Stalking silently between the trees that filled the space between him and his quarry, he realized what it was.

Exasperation. Six days this woman had been coming to the Forbidden Forest, **his** forest, and six days he'd found her, subdued her, returned her to her own world. The spell he'd placed on her, increasingly strong each night, should have killed whatever interest she have had in his mysterious home. The potency of last night's rendering her unconscious should have made her wonder what her own name was, let alone why she might desire to explore the woods bordering Hogwarts. Thranduil had been quite sure he'd never see her again. He was, he noted unhappily, also quite wrong, for there she stood again like all the other times. Poised in a half-crouch, prepared for an attack that didn't come, she couldn't know that the wolf who'd approached her each of the prior evenings had tired of such fruitless pursuit and now barely raised his head from his paws when her scent, nervous and uneasy, wafted to him on the cool might air.

Why was she resistant to his spellwork? Never before had any been able to throw it off, but this one… she was made of sterner stuff than the usual, it would appear. Each night she seemed to recall something else—the second time she'd appeared in the forest, she'd been wearing warmer clothing; the third time, when the wolf menaced her, she brandished some sort of light source that was not dependant on magic, startling the beast enough to keep it from attacking until Thranduil could appear and hasten it on its way. The fourth time, instead of her wand, she had waved around a respectably sized dagger, and Thranduil was impressed by her intent if not her technique. Brave, this one. Amazingly stupid, but brave… and persistent.

The fifth night, she'd borne over her shoulder a bag, which by its lumps and angles proclaimed that it held books—large, heavy ones at that, and Thranduil marveled that her small frame was capable of hoisting their obvious weight without undue injury. And the sixth night, last night, she'd also come clutching a pack of what appeared to be rations. Could it be she planned on camping here, in the Forbidden Forest? _This was unacceptable_, he thought sternly, and did not give her even a second to begin speaking that time before making her sleep and taking her back to the woods' edge. "This must end," he told the half-giant, who accepted the unconscious burden into his burly arms as gently as he had all five previous evenings.

"Easier said than done, with 'Ermione," Hagrid grumbled, gazing down with shrewd black eyes at the girl, his expression hovering between affection and concern. "When she's got an idea, there's no turnin' her from it."

The elf's gaze now narrowed as he stared at her face. So common, so unassuming. There was no indication in her unremarkable visage of any extraordinary intelligence or will. She should have been as easily distracted from her interest in the Forest as myriad others had been over the millennia. Thinking back on this, a day later, another emotion reared its unwelcome head: curiosity. It had ever been one of his shortcomings, alas. What could be so important to this girl, that she would return over and over? What could drive her to overcome the most powerful magic he could muster?

She had stepped into a small clearing, and a weak shaft of moonlight just managed to pierce the tree cover above to illuminate her figure as she began to unpack her overloaded bag with what Thranduil was beginning to see were characteristically brisk movements. Her now-useless wand, several ancient-looking books, a pot of ink and well-used quill were all placed along a gnarled tree-root, and then she sat down at the base of one majestic tree, looking around expectantly.

He could delay no longer, not when it was so patently obvious she was waiting for him. Thranduil resolutely ignored the warning whispers of foreboding that slithered through his mind and stepped into the clearing. "I see you attend me, milady," he commented, a touch of dryness to his tone.

She leapt to her feet immediately, looking rapturously pleased to see him. "Oh," she breathed. "I knew you were real, I knew it."

Thranduil frowned. He did not know how she was able to recall anything of her interactions with him, few and brief though they had been, but it could not be permitted to continue. He reached toward her, as he had done the previous six nights, to instill upon her one last time the enchantment of forgetting. This time, when he returned her to the half-giant, he would stress his concerns and make it clear that his patience was nearing its end.

"No!" she cried, surprising him in his moment of introspection, and sprang away like a startled deer. Quicker than that, however, he was after her, and with a hand on her arm, whipped her around to face him. "Please," she entreated, eyes huge in her pale face, "please, don't make me forget again."

"Why should I not?" he asked almost against his will—it did not matter why she was here, only that she could not be allowed to continue to come.

"I am searching for the Source," she blurted, trying to say as much as possible before he rendered her senseless once more. She did not notice how he stiffened at her words. "I need it."

Face carefully blank, he put her away from him and scrutinized her. She did not have the _fëa_ of a dishonest woman, and her eyes were clear, holding none of the hunger for power he'd seen poison countless others before her. "Why?" he asked simply.

Hermione's breath shuddered in her lungs, as if protesting being drawn inside and struggling to get out. "My friend," she whispered. "He was… damaged… in a battle several years ago. It's my fault he was hurt—I was trying to deflect the Killing Curse from hitting him, and it didn't work properly." She bit her lip as regret took a leisurely cruise through her once more. "I think I've a way to heal him, but I don't have enough power. No one does." She stared into the distance, in the direction of where the Source was hidden, and Thranduil felt unease skitter its way across the back of his neck at her unwitting accuracy. "Only the Source is able to help him, now," she finished sadly.

He stared at her, stared hard and deep until she felt her soul had been flayed open. "I am sorry," he told her at last, "that I cannot help you. I do not know how you are aware of the Source, or its location, but—"

Hermione felt panic fill her as he spoke. Finally, she was getting some answers, some sort of confirmation of her long-held suspicions, and she was being refused! "No," she interrupted, too distraught to catch his expression of astonishment at being cut off for the first time in ten thousand years. "There is no 'but'. Ron needs the Source, and I'm going to use it to help him." She tilted her chin up in a shockingly stubborn move. "I won't let anyone stop me."

His features were impassive; it could have been a marble statue before her for all the movement or mobility he showed. "I regret that I cannot help you," he said softly. "But the Source is more important than the life of one Man." An expression of grief flitted across his face then, so quickly Hermione thought she might have imagined it.  "More important than the life of one Elf."

"Is that what you are?" Hermione demanded, pouncing on the fragile hint. "An Elf? What's your name? I'm Hermione, Hermione Granger."

He sighed. Really, if the situation weren't so dire, he might find himself smiling at her. She was so young, still so eager and questing and idealistic. Idly, he wondered what that was like. "There is no point in telling you my name," he answered at last. "You shall not remember me long enough to use it."

She tilted her head to the side, and her mouth curved in that way particular to females when they know something a male does not. "That's not possible," she said at last, eyes gleaming. "You're the reason I keep remembering the little that I do, after all."

"I?" he asked, eyebrow quirked. "Why is that?"

Hermione Granger tilted her chin up again, this time coquettish instead of tenacious, and then said something that shocked him, shocked him to his core with its strangeness, its incongruity to their situation, and its sheer brazenness. "Why, because I've fallen in love with you, of course."

_fëa_ = spirit, soul


	4. Chapter 4

Last of the Edhel, Chapter 4

by CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

Hermione fumed as she stomped through the woods, the hastily-packed items in her rucksack clunking noisily as she tripped over tree roots and skidded over rain-wet leaves. It had been over an hour since she'd left the Elf in the little clearing, and her anger had yet to abate.

Certainly, it had been rash of her to tell him she loved him. After all, simply because she had some strong emotions for him— whomever and whatever he was— didn't mean she had to actually **mention** that fact to him. His reaction, while perfectly reasonable, was still not entirely necessary.

He'd laughed at her. No, not laughed. "Guffawed" was a better word for his reaction to Hermione's proclamation of love. The ethereally handsome creature who'd come to occupy her thoughts almost as much as the Source in recent days had stared at her in utter astonishment, said, "Do you, now?" and then burst into peals of laughter that would have made her weep at the beauty of the sound if she hadn't been so infuriated.

She wondered why she wasn't more embarrassed. _Actually_, she thought, coming to a halt and leaning back against a tree, _I'm not all that embarrassed, really._ She didn't think there was much to be embarrassed about, if she were to be honest. Being in love was nothing to be ashamed of.

Hermione supposed he had a point, laughing at her. After all, she didn't imagine it was every day that strange women appeared in a magical wood declaring their adoration for reclusive, pointy-eared forest-dwellers. She was fairly certain, however, that if more women knew about him, they'd be flocking to the Forbidden Forest in droves.

A mental image rose unbidden, then, of Hagrid trying to restrain a horde of amorous females from entering the Forest and searching for the elusive creature whose masculine beauty surpassed all others, and Hermione found herself grinning at it even as she tripped over yet another root and pitched forward onto her face.

"Huh," she grunted, spitting out a mouthful of leaves, and wondered if she were going in even remotely the right direction to bring her back to the edge of the Forest bordering Hogwarts. Then she thought, _Why am I bothering to leave? I need the Source, and I'm not likely to find it by going home._ Fired by a new determination, she sat up and rummaged in her backpack for the thermos of now-cold tea to rinse the remaining bits of leaf from her mouth.

Standing, Hermione slung the pack on her back once more and peered around. She could be wrong, but this particular area was looking very familiar—was she traveling in circles? She tied a strip of fabric torn from her undershirt to a tree branch at eye-level, and began walking. Sure enough, after another hour she was confronted with the same bit of shirt, and sighed.

The direction she'd been walking looked no more promising than any other. Intuition was not considered a major aspect of magic as she'd learnt it at Hogwarts, but hers had rarely failed her and she'd had no other success so there wasn't much to lose, was there? Blowing out a gusty breath, Hermione closed her eyes and turned. She stopped when it felt right to stop, opened her eyes, and began striding with great purpose once more.

Hermione had no more success this time, either, walking for what felt like ages before stopping. "This is hopeless," she muttered sourly. There had to be a way to refine the location spell—it wasn't enough to simply identify the general location of the Source. The Forbidden Forest was too large, and she was just one person. The Elf who'd captured her heart wasn't going to help her any time soon—just the opposite, she suspected—and so she would simply have to be more precise in finding out where the Source was.

Besides, the sky was beginning to lighten with the coming morning, and she was tired. She thought longingly of the bed that awaited her at Harry's apartment, and made to Apparate.

Except that nothing happened. Frowning, she tried again. And again. And again, until she was panting from the effort.

"It is not only your wand-magic that will not work here, if I do not allow it," said a soft voice, and Hermione whirled to find him standing behind him. If she'd thought him handsome by the pallid light of the moon, then the pale gold sunlight stealing through the canopy of leaves overhead made him nothing short of magnificent, and her heart lurched in her chest.

_Focus_, she scolded herself. _Think about the Source. Think about your research, about all you've done to get to this point. Think about Ron. _Feeling calmer, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin to confront him.

Thranduil followed the woman as she wandered through the woods. Did she have any idea whatsoever where she was going? His doubt was both great and sincere. Stealth seemed an utterly foreign concept to her: she made as much noise as a boar, tramping through leaves and snapping twigs. Had his presence not dissuaded various of the Forest's creatures from making the woman's acquaintance, she'd have been dead a dozen times.

He was baffled as to why she was able to recall him, in spite of the forgetting spells he'd placed on her. After a week of them, she should have scarcely been able to remember her own name. And yet, she not only remembered him, but doggedly continued to come into the Forest, searching for the Source.

Thranduil was not stone-hearted; indeed, he sympathized with her plight. Had he an ill friend so dear, his fervour in locating a cure would have surpassed hers. But he had no such friend. His was but a duty, one he'd taken upon his shoulders three Ages ago, and he meant to keep it. The son of Oropher would not be dissuaded from his responsibility, no matter how prettily the woman might plead for him to do just that.

And there was the matter of her declaration of love. He had no doubt it was nothing more than mere attraction; perhaps a mild infatuation at worst, the result of a young woman's fanciful romanticizing of a male of his appearance. After all, people simply didn't fall in love at first sight any more; the last instance of which he was aware was Elrond and Celebrían, five Ages ago.

_She certainly seemed convinced of what she was saying,_ commented a small and rebellious part of his mind determined to irk him. He ignored it, concentrating on tracking her. At one point, she had thought to navigate by knotting a scrap of cloth to a branch. Thranduil felt no pangs of remorse in moving it once she'd moved on several dozen paces, easily skirting around her trajectory to tie it on another tree in exactly the same manner. He wished to see her reaction; would she give up? He would have allowed her to leave, then, if she had tried to go.

But she was of sterner stuff than that, this Hermione Granger. She'd chosen another direction, and set off with firm purpose in her step. He was not pleased to note that, while it had been an arbitrary choice, she was heading with almost uncanny accuracy toward where the Source was hidden.

She was not going to relent, he realized. The part of him not indignant over this imposition to his guardianship was grudging admiration—in his experience, few of the race of Men were this committed to pursuing a goal, especially when the benefit was for another. Another, infinitely more worrisome realization came on the heels of the first: he could not permit her to pass on what little she had learnt of him and the Source.

He must kill her.

The idea sat in his stomach like a stone. Never had he been a proponent of waste, and this woman's death at his hand, far before her time and with a life of accomplishment before her, was not something he would relish.

_When had it come to this?_ he wondered, and allowed himself a soft bark of bitter laughter. He, defender of his realm for millennia without assistance from a ring or allies, had slaughtered countless orc, Uruk-hai, warg, goblins, spiders, and various minor demons. Now he was called to slaughter once more, but this time his foe was neither evil nor even a challenge. She was powerless, here in his Forest—without magic, without strength, without even the merest chance of overcoming him.

_There is no honour in this,_ the tiny voice whispered in a corner of Thranduil's mind. _No honour, no justice, no sense._ Staring down at his hands, he thought of his son. He had always envied his son's ability to see past exteriors and surfaces to the heart of a matter. It was how he had managed to forge his great friendship with that Dwarf—it was doubtful that such a miraculous thing would have happened, had another Elf been sent with the Fellowship in Legolas' stead.

Thranduil stared at his hands, almost able to see the blood on them. **Her** blood. The blood of an innocent, who wanted the Source not for herself, not to use its power to enhance her own, but to save someone. She was a lively creature, passionate, and he could not bear to know that that passion was gone, that that life was depleted, and for such futility.

He knew, then, that he could not do it. He could not kill her, nor by his lack of protection allow one of the fell beings of this wood to end her life. He sighed. _Not a murderer, then, but a jailer I shall be. ___

She stared up at him when he leapt from the tree above to appear before her, and he could hear the tiny catch to her breath at his proximity. The male part of him, lain dormant so long, gave an exultant little 'hah' to know that he had not yet lost all ability to affect another in that way. It was quickly squashed as unworthy of both himself and her, however.

"It is not only your wand-magic that will not work here, if I do not allow it," he told her softly. "Your Apparition will not work."

"Then how am I going to get home?" she asked, rather breathlessly, he thought.

He could not help but smile, then, at her confusion. It was inconceivable to him that anyone could be so... naive. "You are not."

She tensed, as if to flee, and his smile gentled. "You have no hope of escaping me," he told her. "I am faster than you could ever hope to be."

Her shoulders slumped in defeat; in spite of himself, he felt a little guilt slice through him. But then she straightened those shoulders and lifted her firm little chin some more. "Do it, then."

He frowned. "Do what?" Did she think he would kill her? Clearly, she did, because her gaze went past him to the hilt of the knife sheathed on his back. He was a little insulted, forgetting that just minutes ago, he'd been contemplating doing just that. "I am not going to kill you, child."

"Then what?" Her eyes, wide and startled and alarmed and curious all at the same time, bored up into his. It had been a very long time since he had been the recipient of such a piercing, determined gaze, and he found it both intriguing and disconcerting.

"You are to remain here, in the Forest. I cannot permit you to leave, not with the knowledge you now possess."

"But..." Her words trailed away, leaving her gaping in amazement. "But where will I live? In a tree? And if I don't go home, everyone will think the worst." To his dismay, her eyes filled with tears. "After what's happened to Ron, it would destroy Harry. And the Weasleys... oh, please," she said, reaching out to lay her hand on his arm in pleading. "Please, you can't do this."

Her hand was warm through the fabric of his tunic. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him, and Thranduil's mouth went uncomfortably dry. "I am sorry," he said, disengaging her hand from his arm. "But you are resistant to the forgetting spell. I cannot permit you to leave with the knowledge you possess, and I cannot kill you. There is no other way."

Hermione Granger stared at him a long moment, then snapped her gaping mouth shut with an audible click. "What are you going to do with me, then?" she demanded. "Dump me in some pit? Leave me for the wolves? What?"

What an... abrasive personality she had. Thranduil resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and thought hard. He saw, then, the flaw in his decision: if he did not release her, and she could not be trusted to keep herself alive in the Forbidden Forest—which she could not—then there was but one option.

She would have to come live with him, in his home.

_Ai, Valar.___

This time, he actually did pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and exhaling sharply. Well, there was nothing for it. He had made his decision, now he must live with it. "Follow me," he said. "If you do not, I will carry you."

Rather than be dismayed by what he'd thought would be a threat, he saw with consternation that she seemed rather... interested in the concept, her eyes lighting up as she glanced at his arms. He remembered, belatedly, that she believed herself in love with him, and therefore would find little fault in his carrying her for an extended period of time.

Willow bark tea. He turned and began to make his way toward his home, determined to drink a gallon of the pain-relieving brew as soon as possible, for his head was beginning to pound. It wasn't long, however, before she was calling to him.

"You have to slow down," she called from a dozen paces behind him. "I can't go as fast as you, my legs are shorter than yours."

Thranduil turned and found himself, quite unaccountably, staring at the aforementioned legs. They were not especially long, as she was a short creature, but they were in proportion to the rest of her and thanks to the snug trousers she wore he could see that they as well as her hips were curved nicely.

He should offer to carry her. It was clear she was hoping for that very same thing, and yet Thranduil could not make his lips form the words. A feeling that he could have sworn was panic welled up in him at the thought of taking this stranger into his home, at allowing her into his life as no one had done for tens of thousands of years.

_I should just kill her,_ he thought. It would be the easiest and safest course of action, for all concerned and in all ways. The school's headmaster would have words for him about it, but he knew of Thranduil's duty. He knew that nothing could endanger the Source, that the Source was of utmost importance above all else.

For a moment, Thranduil allowed himself to hate the Source. Without it, he'd be in Aman with his kin, his wife and son at his side. He'd not be relegated to this fragment of his former realm, alone but for the creatures that populated it.

_No_, he amended to himself, _alone no longer_. For now, Hermione Granger was with him. His heart gave a peculiar little leap in his chest, and he knew then why he could not kill her: he did not want to be alone any more. _No longer,_ he thought, the words resonating in his mind. _Alone no longer._

A faint pressure on his hand jolted him from his thoughts, and he realized that he had stood, still and silent, for a considerable amount of time. Hermione Granger had taken his hand, and now peered up at him with a face full of concern.

"Are you quite alright?" she asked. "You looked so... sad, just now."

He removed her hand and stepped back. This habit of hers for touching him would have to stop, and soon. "I am well," he informed her calmly. "My apologies." Then he turned and continued walking. After a moment, she not only followed, but caught him up.

"What's your name?" she inquired, huffing a little after her short sprint. "I'm—"

"Hermione Granger, yes. So you have mentioned." What name could he give her as his? For he could not yet trust her with his true name. "Alfirin," he said at last. "You may call me Alfirin."

"And you're an Elf?" Her frown revealed a tiny line between her brows. "Any relation to house-elves?" She eyed him skeptically. "I don't see how," she finished, seeming to answer her own question.

"We were known to others as Elves, yes," he replied. "But among ourselves, we are Edhel."

"There are more of you?" Hermione Granger asked, almost bouncing with curiousity, and craned her head around as if to find a score of Elves hiding behind each tree. It was almost full light now, and the sun was swiftly burning away the mist and dew.

"There are not," he answered flatly. "I am the Last. In this world, at least." He knew his voice was bitter; he did not care. Best that this woman learnt now what spurred his anger. " 'Twas I alone who remained, to guard the Source."

"Oh," she said softly. "I'm... sorry to hear it."

"It is no concern of yours," he told her firmly, intending to establish what was acceptable conversation, and what was not.

"If I'm to be your prisoner here, then it certainly is my concern!" she retorted. "Or am I to not know anything about you?"

"How much do most prisoners know of their captors?" Thranduil asked mildly. "When my kingdom was vast, and many were my subjects, I do not once recall revealing private issues to those occupants of my dungeons."

"Kingdom? Subjects?" She pounced on the words as a cat might upon so many mice. "You're royalty?"

The corner of his mouth curled derisively. "At one time, yes." He stopped and gestured around them. "Now, I am just one more inhabitant of a haunted wood."

"An inhabitant who's the last of his kind, and the king of all his people," she muttered, aiming a narrow glance at him as he started walking again and she had to hurry to keep up.

"King of **all** my people?" Thranduil mused on that a moment. _Interesting concept_, he thought. Elrond and Galadriel and Círdan would doubtless have much to say on the issue. "No, not all of them. Just those in my lands. My forest." The memory of his forest, his Eryn Lasgalen, as it was millennia earlier, pricked at him. Spiders and all, he felt a pang of longing for how it had been, then sighed. Living in the past had ever been the Edhel's primary shortcoming.

He felt another touch; this time, she was plucking at his sleeve. "You're looking sad again," she informed him. "If you're going to keep doing that, you could at least have the decency to tell me why. I'm dying of curiousity."

That made him smile. He tilted his head back to hide it, peering through the canopy of leaves overhead to the sky beyond. "A pity, that. It would seem you are doomed to being curious, for I shall not divulge this information."

She made a sound suspiciously like "harrumph" and they walked in silence for several minutes. Then some indefinable thread of tension stretched between them, and he knew she was going to press for him to release her once more.

"Please," she began. "You can't begin to know how important it is that I return. Harry... he's lost so many people. His parents, Sirius... Ron... if he loses me too, I— I don't know what he'll do." She paused. "And my parents. I'm their only child, and they've been so good, allowing me to study witchcraft. I'm sure many Muggle parents wouldn't have done. If I don't come home, they'll be so worried."

She turned and grabbed his sleeve once more, effectively halting him. "Please, you have to let me go back. I won't tell anyone. Obliviate me again! Do what you need to! But I have to return!"

She was touching him **again**. Thranduil simply turned and began walking away.

"I'm not coming!" she shouted after him. "I'm going to get out of here! I have to go back!"

"You are free to try," he said calmly, his voice carrying clearly back to her even though he steadfastly faced forward. "But when you change your mind—" he ignored her outraged huff at his use of 'when' "—you have only to continue walking in this direction, and you will come to my home. I will await you there."

"You'll be waiting a long time!" she exclaimed, and he heard leaves rustling as she dropped her rucksack to the ground and plunked down beside it. Shaking his head in bemusement, he walked on.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Tengwar is the alphabet in which Sindarin is written, that flowing script on the side of the One Ring.

Last of the Edhel, Chapter 5

by CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

Hours passed. Thranduil did not have to search for things too keep him occupied whilst he waited for Hermione Granger to come to him; living alone and so remotely ensured that there was always plenty to do. Now, with her as his prisoner, he would have to integrate her into his home and his life..

It was easy enough a task to open one of the closed-off rooms in his home, but he was not sure what would serve as an adequate bed. Perhaps he would just give her his bed... he imagined her sleeping in his chamber, under his blankets, whilst he rolled himself in a fur on the floor before the fire. The idea actually held some appeal—it had been a long time since he had lived rough for any period of time, since before his father had died and he had assumed rule.

Yes, that would do. He removed all personal items from his chamber, stowing them in the empty room, before putting his mind to the task of preparing some food for them. Hermione Granger had been tramping through the Forest all night; doubtless she would be hungry by the time she conceded defeat and came to him. He went to the small garden he kept outside the halls of his home and gathered some vegetables and fruit, then went to the chicken coop and killed a plump hen.

In his little kitchen, he stoked the ever-smoldering fire, and spitted the bird after plucking and gutting it. The flames crackled as fat dripped down, and turned the skin a golden, fragrant brown. He peeled and cut vegetables, turning them into a savory stew, and then drizzled wine over the succulent fruit to enhance its sweetness. He was taking far more care with this meal that he would for just himself, but it had been millennia since he had shared repast with anyone. Even if she was more captive than guest, she would have no cause to complain of his hospitality.

While the meal cooked, Thranduil wandered through the rooms again, trying to look at them with fresh eyes. What would she think of his home? Would she find it comfortable, or lacking in some way? Certainly, technology had advanced in the many centuries since he had been out in the world. Would she be terribly inconvenienced to share his way of life, no doubt far more primitive than she was accustomed to? Would she be bored? Perhaps he could arrange with the half-giant for some books to be brought for her, as those in his library were all written in Sindarin. Until he could teach her to read Tengwar, his own books would be illegible to her.

As the day wore on, however, and light began to fade, a vaguely unsettling sentiment—if he were not mistaken, it was worry—took root in his belly. He had left her at dawn, and it was now dusk, and still she had not found her way to him. It was inconceivable to him that she would have refused to come to him after so long. Surely she was no so stubborn that she would deprive herself of rest, food, and safety merely to prove a point?

Then he recalled the glitter of anger and determination in her eyes before he had turned away, and was banking the flames under their food before taking up his knife and bow and retracing his steps to where he had last seen her.

Except she was not there.

Thranduil scrutinized the area for her tracks. He found them heading to the west, and followed them until he found her. Hermione Granger had managed to find her way a few miles closer to Hogwarts, but that was it— she appeared to have given up her trek a while ago, if the scene before him was any indication. She sat at the base of a tree, a cup of liquid— tea, most likely-- seemingly forgotten at her side. Leaning back against the tree, she rested a thick book on her bent knees and slowly turned the pages. To his great discomfort, she was crying. She looked up as he approached, her eyes red and face blotchy, before returning her gaze to the book.

"Why do you weep?" he asked, crouching down beside her.

She did not raise her eyes from the page. "Because I can't do anything to help Ron," she replied, her voice low. Thranduil leant closer to look at the book that held her interest, and was shocked to find several small portraits on the pages spread out before him, startlingly clear and life-like, of herself and various other people. Chief and largest among them was a portrait of her with two young men, one with an intriguing scar on his forehead, the other with a shock of carroty hair.

To his astonishment, they people in the portraits were... moving. In them, Hermione Granger grinned broadly as she gazed back and forth between the other two, who were acting foolishly as young men often do. He had never seen the like of it in all his long life, and so was startled into making a soft exclamation of delight, turning his face to hers with a wide smile. His smile soon faded, however, when her face crumpled and she began to cry once more. Thranduil sighed, then closed the book and began to pack everything in her sack. Once it was bundled away, he slung it over his shoulder before scooping her into his arms and standing, striding back toward his home.

Almost immediately, she quieted, wrapping her arms with disconcerting speed around his neck and curling most inappropriately into him, burying her damp face against his throat. A silent wail of protest rose in his throat, and he clenched his jaw to contain it. _A poor decision_, he thought. _I have made a poor decision in allowing her to live. It is certain I shall live to regret it._

The thought almost made him smile. Regret, rapture, it mattered not. He would live through all of them. He was, to his chagrin, eternal.

Hermione felt, for the first time in her life, far out of her league. After going in circles for hours because she refused to succumb and follow Alfirin home like a puppy, she realized he'd placed an enchantment of some sort on her, and that she'd never get out of the Forest without his permission.

She was not accustomed to being outclassed; even in school, she knew it was simply an issue of knowledge: the professors had it, and she didn't—yet, and it was just a matter of time until she did. Perhaps Dumbledore's level of sheer experience eluded her yet, but apart from that, she was used to being utterly competent and self-reliant, and did not like this feeling of impotence, of futility and helplessness.

In a way, she supposed it might be good for her to realize the extent to which she relied upon magic—this would teach her not to be so dependant on it. But this was not only about reliance on magic; no, there was far more to it than just that. It would seem that she was trapped, in the Forbidden Forest no less, with no way to extricate herself. Her parents would be wild with fear, and Harry... oh, poor Harry. He'd clung hard to her after Ron's injury, had worked hard to talk her into taking the nice safe research job she had instead of something more dangerous.

"I can't bear to lose you, too," he'd told her, his eyes impossibly sad under those unruly bangs of his. He'd lost so many in his short life. And now it looked as if he had, in fact, lost her. What would he believe had happened to her? She knew he'd think the worst, that he'd tear the world apart trying to find her. And she also knew that, no matter how he searched, he never would.

What would Ron think? Would he believe she'd abandoned him when she no longer came to visit him? The thought of him alone in his hospital room at St. Mungo's, unconscious but still wondering somehow where she was and why she never came anymore, brought tears to her eyes. Before she knew it, she was full-out sobbing, and plopped down on a fallen log to indulge in a good cry. When she quieted, she opened her backpack and pulled out the photo album she'd brought in hopes of using it to show Alfirin exactly who she was trying to help by using his precious Source.

_Alfirin_. Just the thought of him made both longing and anger zing through her. She was furious beyond description that he would thwart her so, that he would stand between her and what she needed to help Ron. She was also furious that he would basically kidnap her to prevent her from revealing anything, anything at all, about the Source. And most of all, she was furious that in spite of it all, she still wanted to fling herself at him_._ However, he'd made it clear he did not share her interest. _That was going to be a hard attitude to overcome,_ she thought with a sigh, and felt her weariness all the more.

Tea would help, even if it were cold. She dug her thermos out and poured a hefty measure into the cap, drinking half in one deep swallow. _I'm hopelessly lost,_ she thought despondently. _I'm stuck in this forest, with an elf of all things, who I can't stop thinking about and who seems to want nothing to do with me, and he won't let me use the Source, and he won't let me go home, and I'm so tired and sore and-- _Before she knew it, she was crying again.

And then he was there, hovering uncertainly over her before kneeling at her side. She saw his amazement at the moving photographs, and thought her heart would stop at his glorious smile. For some reason, it had spurred her to cry yet again. He'd heaved a deeply-felt sigh and shoved her things back in her rucksack, then picked her up. To Hermione, starved for a little comfort after the horrible twenty-four hours she'd experienced, it was like a dream come true. Strong arms supporting her, broad shoulder under her head, delectable scent in her nose and silken hair fluttering against her cheek—all her concerns seemed to melt away.

It just gave her more time to think about her situation, albeit more calmly. Yes, she was far out of her league with him. She was no match for him whatsoever in a physical confrontation, and he also had the magical advantage of her in the Forest, rendering her magic useless. _But what if he were not in the Forest? Hmm._ She tucked that bit of speculation away for perusal at a later time.

She was, in effect, his prisoner. He also had something she needed. Clearly, she would have to make him see reason, to see the logic and necessity of not only permitting her to return home but studying and using the Source as well. Peeping up at him, she wondered how she might accomplish such a thing.  He seemed rather rock-like: impermeable, cold, hard. Her appeals to pity had not moved him, and her tears had only engendered an expression of vague disgust. How long had he been stuck in the woods? Perhaps a different, more physical, sort of entreaty would be more effective...

The idea of seducing him cheered her immensely. Oh, she doubted she actually **could**— he'd probably know what she was up to in a heartbeat and quash it immediately—but a girl could daydream, couldn't she? Allowing her thoughts to wander in one pleasant direction in particular, she was unaware of how her right hand was stroking over the back of his neck, under his hair.

He, however, was perfectly aware of it. Blood rushed first to his head in his fury that she would dare to touch him with such familiarity, before traveling in the opposite direction as a different emotion entirely welled within him. It was wrong to feel lust for this woman, he knew. She was mortal, for one thing; she was after the Source, for another, and therefore not to be trusted. _But_, whispered a tiny, evil voice in the back of his head, _she is warm, and pretty, and willing._ He knew that if he gave her any sign of his inclination he could have her on her back within moments.

For a second, he indulged himself in the thought of dropping to the leaves beneath his feet, stripping off their clothes, and sheathing himself in her body. "I'm in love with you," she had said, and he could imagine her saying it, over and over, as he took her. The idea had more appeal than was even remotely safe or healthy, and he quickened his pace, hoping to reach home before she drove him mad.

Another mile, and her teasing touches abated; her breathing slowed, and he realized to his great relief that she'd fallen asleep. He left her that way until he was within elven-sight of his home, and then jostled her gently awake.

"We are almost there," he said, turning his head to speak into her ear. She stirred against him, murmuring sleepily, and he repressed the urge to fling her to the ground and run away, screaming. _Ai, what a disaster, _he thought sourly. _I have brought ruin upon myself. _With great relief, he set her firmly upon her own feet and strode away, only half caring if she followed him or not.

"I thought you said we were almost there," she prompted after a minute of brisk walking. "I see nothing."

"Of course you see nothing," he replied, greatly affronted. "What sort of secret-keeper would I be if the location of my home were easy for the world to see?" He strode the last few steps to the entrance.

Before them rose a steep embankment of what appeared to be sheer rock, an assortment of vines climbing up its face. Brushing aside the vines, Thranduil revealed the crevice that was the doorway to his abode, turning to glance at her with what he considered permissible smugness.

"You live in a **cave**?" she asked, trepidation clear on her face.

He nodded. "And now, so do you."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Is it weird to dedicate a chapter to one person, when the whole story's dedicated to someone else? Probably. Anyway, this chapter dedicated to houses for helping me make it better. It wasn't so good before. It's entirely due to her influence that it ended up this way (so, if you hate it, I guess it's her fault). Heh.

Last of the Edhel

Chapter 6

By CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

Once inside the crevice in the face of the cliff, there was no light. Thrown suddenly into the pitch-darkness, Hermione whimpered and clutched at Alfirin's tunic. He untangled her fingers from it, allowing her to clasp his hand, and pulled her along behind him.

The way twisted and turned, and there were moments when she was sure she would not fit through, but eventually they emerged from the tight space to what appeared to be a foyer of sorts. Round, with a domed ceiling, a single wall-sconce held a burning torch. Hermione could see that the floor beneath their feet was of an intricate mosaic of what looked like glass, a border of vines not unlike those guarding the entrance to this place, surrounding a scene of two glorious trees on a hill.

Arched, fluted columns rose around the periphery of the foyer, and beneath the arches were five doorways leading only to darkness—they were not lit. Alfirin took the torch and began to walk down the passage that was second to the right.

"Where do the other ways go?" she couldn't help but ask.

"You will see, eventually," was his answer.

She frowned. "Where are we going?"

"That, too, you will see," he said, this time with a slight edge to his voice. Hermione flushed and felt her irritation resurface. What was he out-of-sorts about? She was the one who'd just been kidnapped.

The passageway in which they walked was carved from solid stone, and was decorated with a floriate scrollwork that was so old, the edges had softened from their original crispness, giving them a rather more shabby, romantic look than had been intended, she felt sure. This floor, too, was mosaic, but only of a single colour—a dark, bottle green that reminded her of Alfirin's eyes.

Gazing at him, striding ahead, Hermione shivered. The torchlight flickered against his strong body, highlighting the broad shoulders and long limbs and golden hair, and her mouth went dry as desire came to war with her anger. The conflict within her was making her feel slightly queasy, actually. _This was going to be pure torture,_ she groaned mentally, and squeezed her eyes shut.

It was thus with great surprise that she thudded into his back when he stopped short. "What will be torture?" he asked, and she realized with horror that she'd spoken aloud. "You will come to no harm here, unless you prove a threat to the security of the Source."

Hermione forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. "I just meant, being away from my family and friends will be hard," she said, trying to make her voice sound normal.

"I have no doubt being parted from them will cause you pain, and for that, I am sorry," he told her. "There can be no other way, you realize this, do you not? I do not wish to kill you."

"Can't I at least send word to them that I'm safe?" Hermione asked, hating the pleading tone in her voice. "So they don't worry?"

He was silent a long moment, hair burnished red by the torch he held. It flickered in his eyes, reflecting the flames, and the walls of the passage around them seemed to constrict and wrap more tightly around them. Hermione's unease increased, and her hand went to her belly, pressing lightly. "I will consider this," he said at last, then turned and began walking again.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, and felt the walls recede once more. He was very, very intense, and bearing the brunt of his scrutiny made her feel... naked, like he was somehow able to peer into her mind. She was fairly certain she was in love with him, but she was also fairly sure it was far too soon for her to be sharing the intricacies of her brain with him.

The corridor stopped abuptly at a steep circular staircase, and she trudged up after him for what seemed like forever. At the top, the corridor continued straight for a few metres, and then made a sharp left turn. On the right appeared a series of doors. Alfirin passed the first, and pushed open the second. He placed the torch in another sconce, and stood back to allow her entrance.

Hermione stepped through the door into a room with a vaulted ceiling. Well-lit by fat candles in sconces around the room, the walls were painted a creamy, mottled yellow, and the floor here was of brown stone. To the right, a long oaken table with scores of scars on its surface looked sturdy enough to stand a horse upon, or perhaps Hagrid, and a dozen mismatched chairs were clustered round it.

To the left was an immense fireplace, and an intricately carved divan stood at right angles to a rather throne-like chair before it. The entirety of the far wall was a broad expanse of windows, and Hermione realized that this room had been cut into the sheer face of the cliff. The glass of the windows was so wavy and distorted that seeing clearly through them was impossible, even had it been daytime. Two sets of double doors led outside.

"This is the solar," Alfirin said, then gestured to the doors. "Beyond is the garden terrace." He turned to the right and went through a door, pausing when she remained standing. "Will you follow?" he prompted, a little impatient.

Obediently, she followed, and found herself in a kitchen. There was another huge hearth, but of brick instead of stone, and there were three niches in each of the side-walls. Two of the niches held loaves of bread, slowly turning brown as they baked. A spit, turned out on its hinge away from the fire, held a roasted chicken, and an iron pot was suspended over the crackling flames on a hook.

Alfirin stirred the contents of the pot, humming briefly in approval as he sniffed the fragrant steam rising from it. "It is done," he announced, and turned to the shelves carved into the thick wall for plates and bowls. "You are hungry," he stated, and Hermione was about to frown at his presumption when she realized she **was** hungry.

"Put these on the table in the solar," Alfirin commanded, handing her the stack of dishes along with utensils and linens, and she did, setting the table as he carried in the iron pot, then a platter with the chicken, and a board with a loaf of bread. It did not escape her, the strangeness of such a mundane task, as if she were an honoured guest instead of a captive in this place.

He set two goblets and a bottle of wine on the table before setting to carve the bird, and Hermione noted that he placed the best bits of meat on her plate before serving himself. She frowned.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, her voice low and angry.

His hands stilled. "You know why. I cannot allow you to reveal anything about the Source—"

"No, I understand that," she said. "I mean, why are you being so polite and nice? I'm not your friend. I'm not a guest here. You've kidnapped me, and are keeping me here against my will." She sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest, glaring fiercely at him. "At least be honest about it."

Alfirin sat back, too, and took up his wine glass, sipping deeply before answering. "To my knowledge, I have not deceived you in anything. My actions here are merely an attempt to salvage something of the situation. Would you prefer I throw you in my dungeons and feed you naught but bread and water, as befits a prisoner?" He surveyed her over the rim of his glass, his gaze cool. "Because that can always be arranged, Hermione Granger."

She tried to glare him down and their eyes locked in a battle of wills until, surprisingly, he smiled. "How interesting you are. Will you not eat before the food is cold?" His voice was smooth, persuasive, and Hermione found herself eating a spoonful of vegetable stew before she even knew it. The realization made her even crankier, and she frowned around a mouthful of chicken.

"You can't just change the subject when you're losing an argument," she grumbled, pointing her fork at him. "That's not fair."

Alfirin laughed. "As if fairness has a place here," he scoffed, and buttered a slice of bread before handing it to her. His tone turned flat, and more than a little bitter. "You had best learn that there is no fairness, no right or wrong. There is only the Source."

He seemed infinitely sad, sad and angry and just… without hope. Hermione forgot, for a moment, that she was furious at him and put down the bread to touch his hand, wanting to give comfort, to erase that look of despondency from his beautiful face.

Automatically, his hand turned up and clasped around hers, gripping almost convulsively, as if he couldn't resist, and his gaze latched onto her face. In his eyes, she could read an almost heartbreaking despair before he came back to himself and blinked, erasing everything but a vague disdain.

He pulled his hand from hers. "Eat," he commanded, and turned his attention to his plate.

Hermione took up her own goblet and drank. The wine was smooth and mellow, slipping down her throat effortlessly, and it was only when her head began to feel like it weighed a hundred kilos that she realized that it was, perhaps, stronger than the wine she was accustomed to drinking.

Replacing her goblet on the table with great care, she heard a soft exhalation and looked up to find that Alfirin was laughing softly at her. In the candlelight, he looked like a young god, and she felt her breath catch at the sight of him, even as her heart gave a queer twist in her chest.

The smile fell slowly from his lips, and he tilted his head to one side. "It is not wise to gaze at a man so," he told her. "Not wise at all."

"Like what?" she asked, the wine filling her with a rebellion she would not normally have expressed.

"Like you would give your soul to him," he answered, and stood, picked up one of the candles on the table. "Come, you are tired, and have taken too much wine. It is time for you to sleep." To her surprise, he held out his hand to her, and she placed her own in it, allowing him to draw her up.

Alfirin led her from the solar into the corridor again. At the end of it was a circular staircase cut into the stone of the cliff, and at the top, another corridor with doors. He entered the first room and placed the candle on the prettily carved little table beside the bed. "This is my chamber," he announced. "You will stay here until I can build another bed in the other room."

The room's vaulted ceiling was lower than the solar's, but still boasted a wall of windows and a single door leading out to what she suspected was another terrace. Curtains of pale fabric fluttered in the breeze, and he went to draw them closed.

Hermione stared at the bed—the big, soft bed with creamy-white linens and fluffy pillows and what appeared to be a coverlet of some sort of dark, silky fur—and then slowly, slowly turned to face him. His face was impassive as she stared up at him, and she felt once more the immense conflict of resentment and longing.

Just as her hand was reaching out, he stepped toward the door and said, "I will sleep in the next room." He plunked her rucksack, which he'd snagged on the way out of the solar, onto a chair by a window. Halfway out the door, he paused. "Your every emotion reads clearly on your face," he commented as if discussing the weather. "You should learn to hide yourself better."

With that cryptic comment he was gone, the door snicking shut behind him, and Hermione slumped onto the bed, awash in a glut of confusion, disappointment, and half-realized desire. Feeling rather forlorn, she curled up on her side, pillowing her head on her arm. She marveled at being in a room cut from solid rock, and stared out the window. Trees swayed in the moonlit night, moved by a breeze that was scarcely a whisper, and she felt exhaustion steal over her. It was not long before she slept.

She woke up again several hours later, and was panicked for a moment to be somewhere unfamiliar until she remembered where she was. Calming down, she found herself once again staring out the window. The wind had picked up, and the tree branches were waving more energetically than before, their leaves sussurating in the breeze that had made the night chill and damp.

Hermione realized she'd taken to petting the fur coverlet beneath her as if it were Crookshanks, and horror and guilt welled up in equal amounts in her belly at the thought of the cat. In a flash, she was off the bed and dashing to the next room where Alfirin slept.

Except, of course, she'd been so noisy that he was awake long before she flung open the door, sitting up from his nest of blankets before the banked fire in the grate. "Please!" she exclaimed, dropping beside him onto her knees and reaching out to grab at him. "I just remembered... my cat! He's at Harry's, and no one knows I was there, and Harry's not coming back for weeks!" She paused to sob in a breath. "You have to let me tell someone I'm here, so they can get Crookshanks. If you don't, he'll starve to death."

There was a long silence before Alfirin replied. "These are risks you should have pondered before you started your course of action," he said at last.

"How was I supposed to know that an ill-tempered Elf protecting the Source was going to kidnap me?" Hermione demanded, dropping her hands from his arms.

Even in the darkness, she could feel the amusement radiating from him. "I am not ill-tempered," was all he said. "I would have killed you a week ago, if I were."

He wasn't taking her seriously. In her frustration, Hermione struck at him, only meaning to smack his arm. She hadn't counted, however, on his lightning-quick reflexes, and soon found herself pressed face-down against the floor, outstretched arm twisted behind her back as he pressed his weight against her.

"Do you not fear me at all?" Alfirin asked. "Do not mistake my lenience with you for softness. I am kind because I choose to be, not because I must, and will not tolerate violence from you in any form." He released her arm, and she exhaled the breath she'd been holding against the pain, trying to cradle her sore arm close.

"You seem to have a notion of romance where I am concerned; best now to dispel that notion, I think." His weight on her made it hard to breathe, and her lungs were aching for more oxygen. "Do you think your avowals of love will move me? Perhaps make me more amenable to your need for the Source to help your friend? I assure you, they will not."

His voice in her ear was low and menacing, and she felt truly frightened of him for the first time. "Do you think to seduce me? By all means, try. You might even succeed; it has been a very long time since I have lain with someone." He settled his hips more firmly against her backside, making her aware of his position on top of her. "But my body is the only secret I would share with you; you will never have the Source. Ever. I have not relinquished my journey West only to shirk my duty for a mortal female."

Hermione was silent a long time, her breath gasping through her lips as she struggled to think of what to do. Even though panic clouded her mind, arousal was snaking through the clouds at the feel of him against her, and she wondered what was wrong with her. She was being held hostage by an Elf of dubious sanity, pressed to the cold stone floor while he came perilously close to either killing or molesting her, and she was starting to get turned on?

In shame, tears filled her eyes even as heat rushed through her to pool low in her abdomen. He was still speaking, saying something about how honoured she should be that he spared her life, when her hips decided they desperately needed to push back up into him.

Thranduil was angry, more at himself than at her. His damnable weakness had stayed his hand with mercy when his duty demanded her death to keep the secret of the Source, and now this wilful and vexing woman would have to live with him for the rest of her life. That fact did not summon as much distaste as it should have, and he was disappointed with himself for the shameful pang of relief that his solitary vigil was finally at an end.

He rather hoped she planned to try to seduce him for the Source; she'd not succeed, but it would have been quite a novelty for this young innocent to lure him toward temptation. Not that he needed much luring, truth be told; he'd been half-aroused ever since her bold announcement of love the previous night, and every time he settled down she would gaze at him with her huge eyes, looking as if making love to him would be the pinnacle of her life.

No, he would not be swayed from making this point. She had to know that, try as she might, he would not shirk his duty to protect the Source. Elbereth, how he hated the thing...

" 'Twould have been far easier for me to have ended your life, Hermione Granger, and—" his words cut off with a curious gurgle in his throat at the unmistakable pressure of her rounded backside against his groin. Before he could still it, his own pelvis undulated in response.

His sensitive ears picked up the tiny hitch in her breath, the speeding up of her pulse. "It's just Hermione," she told him, her voice breathless and husky in a way that made his skin itch. And then she rubbed against him again. Her soft flesh gave against him, cushioning his erection exquisitely, and Thranduil's body, starved for contact, capitulated immediately.

He found himself dropping his head to her shoulder as he ground repeatedly, mindlessly against her, clasping her waist and holding her still for his onslaught. She whimpered and turned her face to him, lips brushing his cheek, and he buried his hand in her hair so she was locked in place for his kiss.

Her mouth opened for him at once, and she whimpered when his tongue swept inside. She tasted of wine and fear and arousal, and Thranduil found himself hurtling toward some indefinable goal where there was nothing but this delicious friction, this softness crushed to his aching body.

A pain in his scalp dragged him up a little from the depths of his lust, and he blinked slowly to find her hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard as she called the name he had given her. "Alfirin," she said insistently, "you're hurting me."


	7. Chapter 7

Last of the Edhel

Chapter 7

By CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

Reality came back in a deafening and unwelcome surge. _What have I done?_ Thranduil's mind wailed as he returned more fully to himself. He levered himself up and off her, blood thrumming unsatisfied in his veins before coming to a near-total standstill, because instead of scrambling away from him, instead of fleeing as she really ought to have...

...Hermione Granger— Hermione— rolled to her back and reached for him, trying to draw him onto her again. Faint moonlight streamed in through the window, lighting her dark eyes like stars and accenting the tender curves of her lips, and he thought he might scream with frustration and disbelief.

"Elbereth," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Elbereth, help me." There was a long, protracted moment of deathly silence, and then he felt the air shift as Hermione moved. He opened his eyes again to find her much as she had been before, kneeling before him as he sat on the floor, her hands outstretched to him.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, face grave and concerned. He could not bear to see it, and closed his eyes once more.

"I did not bring you here to accost you," Thranduil said at last. There were so, so many things wrong with what he had just done, he could not begin to count them.

Hermione laughed, a soft and womanly sound that made a tingle start at the base of his spine. "Pity," she said, surprising him into opening his eyes to stare at her. She was smiling impishly, her bushy hair cascading over her shoulder as she tilted her head to one side, studying him as best she could in the near-total darkness. "It's not accosting if I want it, too, is it?"

"You do not understand," he told her between gritted teeth, and tugged his hand from her grasp. She'd taken to rubbing small circles on his skin with her fingertips. It was very soothing and distracting, as it had meant to be, but he wanted to be neither soothed nor distracted. "You are a child."

"Maybe," Hermione conceded and shifted closer, close enough that he could smell her hair and feel the heat radiating from her. "But I still want you." She took his hand again, and with a boldness that shocked and secretly thrilled him, pressed it over her breast. Against his palm, the nipple was a hard point, and Thranduil felt himself shudder as his fingers curled over its plump roundness. "I still love you," she breathed, shifting closer still until her knees were braced on either side of his hips.

"Then you are a fool," he groaned, feeling the last of his control slip at her words. His hands shot out to grab her waist, jamming her down on his lap as he bucked upward. The heat pouring from between her legs scalded him even through the layers of fabric that separated them, and her sweet moans in his ear were not helping him to regain control of himself. "We are both fools."

Her fingers slid through his hair, tugging him toward her chest, and he bit down over her nipple through the cloth of her garment. "Mngh," Hermione said distinctly. The scent of her desire made him lightheaded, and her trembling evolved into full-blown shaking before she went still for a split-second, then cried out, writhing against him.

That was all it took to send him crashing into his own pleasure, and with a final lunge against her, Thranduil's head fell back as he arched endlessly up, rubbing himself into the notch of her thighs, his pleasure only heightened by the kisses she pressed over his face between mumblings of, "I love you, love you..."

He could not bear to hear it, and kissed to her make her quiet. She did not seem to mind his method, and indeed returned his kiss with great enthusiasm. Gradually, their heartbeats slowed, lips and tongues moving more gently and less passionately against each other until it was more a slow caress than anything else. It was clear she was a novice at this, but then it had been so long since Thranduil had kissed anyone, he might as well have been a mere elfling of a few centuries himself.

Reality slowly seeped back, invading his languor, and a dim sense of horror made itself known. He had just come inside his trews, he realized, after rubbing himself like a dog against this young woman. Cold crept within him, spreading like ice crystals, at the knowledge he'd taken advantage of her on myriad levels. He was Edhel, she was mortal. He was strong, she was weak. He was her warden, she his captive. He was ancient, she just a child.

The number of betrayals mounted, and he tried to shrink away from her in his shame, but she was sprawled bonelessly against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He felt a sense of foreboding, that she would always be thus: trapping him in her softness, and he but nominally struggling to be free.H

 Did the fly secretly long to be devoured by the spider?

"Alfirin," Hermione murmured contentedly, and rubbed her cheek against him.

The sound of the false name on her lips broke his paralysis, and with firm hands he lifted her from his lap. "Return to bed," he instructed, refusing to look at her as he stood. His trews were clinging wetly and uncomfortably, and he realized with great embarrassment that he had drenched the entire front of himself.

"I need to wash," she said quietly, peering through the darkness in his direction, and he was relieved to know she could barely see a thing.

His vision, of course, was unimpeded by the lack of light, and he strode from the room without looking back as Hermione hesitantly got to her feet. Were her legs as shaky as his own? The memory of how hers had quaked as they clasped him during her climax made him shudder once more, though whether in horror or renewed desire he was no longer able to discern.

He pushed open a door, and motioned for her to enter. "This is the water room," he told her, lighting a candle for her to see by. "You may wash here." When he turned to go, her soft voice stopped him.

"What about you?" she asked, and he damned them both for the worry he heard in her tone.

"Do not concern yourself with me," Thranduil grated out.

She laughed, but there was little humour in it. "A little late for that, now," she said, and shut the door.

Thranduil waited until he heard the familiar gasping sound of the pump being worked, and the splash of water into the basin, before leaving. He wended his way through the ancient tunnels until he came to the underground spring where he usually bathed, and stepped into it fully dressed. He slumped back against the rough stone wall, and let the strong current cleanse him. He felt more bleak than he could remember, moreso even than when Legolas had sailed west, more bleak than when his wife had died, more bleak than when he had taken this task of protecting the Source.

For the first time in his long, long life, he did not know what to do.

Hermione did not sleep well, her mind flooded by memories of her interlude with Alfirin and thus guaranteeing she spent a restless night tossing back in forth in his bed. Upon waking, she rubbed her eyes, then padded over to the door to the terrace, pushing it open and stepping out. There were many plants and flowers in vast tubs, and the low stone wall around the terrace held a number of smaller pots as well. The entire perimeter of the terrace was tightly enclosed by the trees of the forest, and she suspected that even if a person stood on the ground directly below, they'd not know there was anything but the flat, uninteresting face of the cliff overhead.

Hermione found a bare spot on the wall and sat, tilting her head back to feel the sunlight on her face. She felt weary, but calm. Her anger and fear of the day before had eased, sometime during the course of the night, into a weary acceptance as her practical nature asserted itself. Ok, so she was being held against her will by a creature from whom once glance made her knees weak with lust. If his actions from the night before were any indication, that affliction was not entirely one-sided.

He appeared to be aware of any and all attempts she might make to gain access to the Source. This meant there were two choices for her: the first involved somehow managing to sneak around him to get to it; the second, openly convincing him to allow her access. The simplest option of just leaving it alone was no option at all—there was no way in hell Hermione was going to be so close to helping Ron and not even try.

She was, quite frankly, surprised at her composure. It wasn't every day, after all, that you get kidnapped by the man—Elf—of your dreams, have him cook you the best meal you've eaten in months, hump you senseless, then desert you in the bathroom whilst he scarpers. Not the most flattering of encounters, but, she pondered, he had seemed fairly traumatized by it so at least he hadn't just been using to her get off.

It concerned her. Most men she knew would have been thrilled to have an eager woman practically gagging for it, but Alfirin had seemed almost anguished by his reaction to her. There was no mystery to her own behaviour toward him: feeling him arch helplessly against her, feeling the hard stroke of his erection against her, had easily been the most arousing thing she'd ever experienced. It was a miracle she'd lasted as long as she had.

And all Hermione could think was, _how can I make it happen again?_ And then she felt ashamed, because wherever Alfirin was, he was upset about something, and here she was, trying to devise ways of getting him to shag her for real. Women were always lamenting how men used them for sex, and she was doing the same.

_I'm wanton,_ she thought as she passed through the bedroom on the way to the corridor and downstairs. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she was hungry in more ways than just one.

Though she called Alfirin's name on the way to the kitchen, he did not reply_. Probably has some Centaurs to menace, or a perhaps wolf dared to venture too close and needs a bit of terrorizing,_ she thought blithely.

Then she felt bad at her less-than-flattering thoughts of him, because on the table was laid out a pretty feast for her. The table was set for one, and there was the rest of last night's loaf of bread beside a small dish of butter, a jar of honey, a plate of fruit, and a jug of milk. And in the centre of the table was an impossibly elegant little vase holding a single, perfect spray of deep purple lilac.

Hermione could not wipe the foolish smile from her face even when she was chewing. He was **adorable**, even if his actions were fueled more by guilt, she suspected, than affection. What an odd, odd man. Elf. Whatever. His bread was excellent, too.

After eating, she cleaned up as best she could and then began to wander. Once her curiosity about the kitchen and solar had been satisfied, she began to prowl around the other rooms. The last room on the bottom floor was a workroom of sorts, with heavy tables and tools and myriad supplies on the deep shelves. Upstairs, besides the two bedrooms and the water room as Alfirin called it—a bathroom with the toilet situated over running water so all waste would simply flow away—was a library of sorts.

Inside were books, many many books. Some were bound in leather, some in the bark of trees, some in heavy, slubbed silk. All were exquisitely calligraphed in a flowing script that made no sense whatsoever to Hermione—the letters were neither Roman nor Greek nor Cyrillic of any sort, she was sure. Still, bibliophile that she was, she couldn't resist running her hands over them, opening them and tracing the lines with a fingertip.

"I will teach you to read Tengwar, if you wish," Alfirin said from behind her, and she turned to see him standing in the doorway. He had clearly just come from being in the Forest—his boots were dirty, there was a leaf in his hair, and though his bow was nowhere in sight, his knives and quiver were still strapped to his back.

Hermione replaced the book and approached him. "I would like that," she agreed, tilting her head back to study him. His ageless face looked as it ever did, and his hair was neatly arranged in its customary plaits, but his green eyes seemed different, somehow. It was as if his weariness had somehow deepened since the last time she'd been able to look so intently at him, and she felt a pang of regret that she had caused it.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He quirked a golden brow. "Are you?" he asked casually, and strolled past her to walk to the door leading to the terrace. Pushing it open, he stepped out into the sunshine filtering through the leaves. "Why would you be sorry?"

There was a tone to his voice that Hermione did not like, not at all, bitter and hard and dry. She followed him outside, not allowing herself time to admire the lush vegetation growing in ornate clay pots around the terrace's periphery, nor the roses winding up the stone face of the cliff. "I'm sorry that I've caused such a disturbance in your life. If not for me, you wouldn't be so..."

Her words trailed off uncertainly as he turned to face her, his expression bland. "So...?" he prompted, seeming a combination of amused and slightly offended.

Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation. "I don't know!" she exclaimed at last. "You aren't happy, that's certain."

"And you attribute that to yourself?" At her nod, he smiled, a slow and rather nasty smile. "I assure you, Hermione Granger, that not all things originate with you. I was not happy with my lot long before you insinuated yourself into my life."

Stung, she stepped back, but would not give up. "For how long?" she asked impudently. "How old **are** you, anyway?"

His smile widened, and seemed more a baring of teeth than anything else. "Older than you could possibly comprehend." He sighed, then, and looked down to where his fingers were mutilating the petals of a rose. "Older than **I** can comprehend, sometimes."

Would he **ever** give her a straight answer? "So, you can't die?" She was impossibly intrigued by all this, and wondered how it were possible that she'd never come across the history of a race of immortals through her intensive studies.

"I can die," Alfirin corrected, and smiled once more, without much humour but with an immense amount of sorrow. "I simply will not."

Hermione couldn't think of a reply to that, so she kept quiet. "Thank you for breakfast," she said after an awkward silence. "It was... nice of you."

His eyebrow twitched a tiny bit. Instead of replying, he surprised her with a slight bow, hand over his heart. There was a slight, very pretty tinge of pink to his cheeks, and it took her a moment to realize he was both thanking her and apologizing for their quasi-lovemaking.

"About last night," she began, hope plain in her voice.

Thranduil held up a hand to still her words, and took a moment to study her. Hermione Granger was a creature of great spirit, he decided, and about as different as a person could be from the elleths of old.

Whereas elven females were tall, willowy, and hopelessly lovely with sleek, straight hair, Hermione Granger was short and bosomy. Her face was fresh and eager, not really beautiful but still somehow appealing, and her hair... it was as if her immense energy could not possibly be contained in flat, neat locks. The length of coarse brown curls seemed to practically vibrate from the force of her vitality.

Great intelligence lit her dark eyes, and he felt himself eager to begin teaching her what he knew, as if he had the right to presume to be her mentor. He had seen the reverence in her gaze and touch for his books, and knew she would be an eager and apt pupil.

He almost groaned as that path of thought took a darker, more sensual turn, and forced his wandering mind back to the issue at hand. "I have decided that you may send word to your kin," Thranduil told her, watching her carefully.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, smiling. Then she sobered and added,  "I'm sensing there's a 'however' coming."

He stepped toward a barrel in the corner of the terrace to hide his smile at her perceptiveness. "However," he continued accordingly, dipping a bucket in the barrel, "I will approve the content of your letter. Only then may you send it."

He began to water the plants around them, and she did not answer right away. "Are these terms acceptable to you?" She was watching him, an indecipherable expression on her face, but her eyes were bright in a way he did not trust. "You should know that I will be able to detect any enchantment you place on the letter, Hermione Granger. Locating spell, invisible words... nothing shall be on the parchment save what I wish to be there."

Her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, and he frowned hard to keep from smiling. She was utterly transparent. He wondered if she realized how little she was able to deceive him, and contemplated telling her, but decided against it—it was terribly amusing to watch, after all.

"I told you last night," she said crossly, "it's just Hermione."

The memory of just **when** last night she had said that lashed through Thranduil's mind, and he recalled all too clearly the feeling of her beneath him, of the friction of their bodies as they gave each other pleasure. She seemed to remember too, because her breath quickened and her eyes turned hungry as they raked over him.

This had to be stopped, now. "There is much to do today, now that you are here," he said repressively. "We must find more clothing for you—" _heavy, thick, shapeless clothing,_ he vowed, "--and there is another bed to be built." He did not think he could be more clear in his intentions that the actions of last night never be repeated.

"There... er... I mean," Hermione said with uncharacteristic stammering, and Thranduil put the bucket down to wait patiently for her to regain some coherence. To his amusement, her face was flushed and she could not seem to hold his gaze. "You don't have to build another bed," she blurted out at least. "We can share."

He could not keep from smiling at her discomfort. "I would not think of imposing so," he demurred.

"I **want** you to impose," she replied passionately, then seemed almost as taken aback by the force of it as he was. Her blush intensified significantly, until her ears were nearly glowing. "Er."

"Ah, but I am a restless sleeper," he said lightly, taking up the bucket once more and upending the rest of its contents on a particularly large and wild bramble of roses. They were darker than pink, but yet not red—actually almost the same colour as Hermione Granger's cheeks at this moment. "I could not rest easily knowing I was disturbing you."

She only glowered at him.


	8. Chapter 8

Last of the Edhel

Chapter 8

By CinnamonGrrl for Technoelfie

"I **want** you to impose," she replied passionately, then seemed almost as taken aback by the force of it as he was. Her blush intensified significantly, until her ears were nearly glowing. "Er."

"Ah, but I am a restless sleeper," he said lightly, taking up the bucket once more and upending the rest of its contents on a particularly large and wild bramble of roses. They were darker than pink, but yet not red—actually almost the same colour as Hermione Granger's cheeks at this moment. "I could not rest easily knowing I was disturbing you."

She only glowered at him.

He gave a tiny smile, the very picture of serenity, and stepped inside to the desk, pulling out parchment, quill, and ink. Beckoning her to be seated, he placed them before her. "Give no hint of your location, or why you are here. Simply state you are well, and will not be returning."

She nodded, and set to writing. Thranduil turned to the terrace and, standing in the doorway, let out a piercing noise like the cry of a bird. It startled her, and she knocked over the ink-bottle. Muttering angrily, she looked around for something to clean it before the ink spilled to the floor, but he shook his head.

With a wave of his hand, the ink was immediately back in its bottle as if it had never been spilt.

"Wandless magic?" Hermione Granger demanded, gaping. "How—"

"Elves have no need for wands," he interrupted, and stepped out to the terrace just as a large bird alighted on the top of the stone wall. She gaped at the sudden appearance of the eagle, to his amusement. "How fare thee, my friend?" he asked the eagle in formal Sindarin. "It has been long since I required your services; you honour me with your assistance."

The power of speech had long since evolved away from these, Gwaihir's far-distant descendants, but the ability to comprehend human language had not. The eagle nodded to Thranduil before settling in to wait for the item he was to deliver.

She was still staring at the eagle. "Write," Thranduil reminded her, and she shut her mouth with an audible click before bowing her head over the desk.

Hermione simply stared at the creamy expanse of parchment for a long moment, unable to think of what she could write that would not send them all into a raging panic. Clearly, any hint that she were here against her will would result in a frantic scouring of Scotland and England, perhaps all of Europe. And still, they would not find her.

No, that wouldn't do. Hermione couldn't bear the idea of her family and friends on a fruitless hunt. She would just have to convince them that her disappearance was by choice. As she was hardly a very impetuous person—falling in love at first sight of Alfirin notwithstanding—this would not be an easy task.

Perhaps she should just play to the women, and the men would follow? She knew her mother, Ginny, Lavender, and Mrs. Weasley would adore the idea of Hermione giving up everything to be with her handsome, mysterious lover—hadn't they been nagging her for years to take up with someone instead of devoting all her time to working and researching a cure for Ron? Possibly, just possibly, their enthusiasm for it might convince the men to go along with it.

Taking a deep breath, she began to write.

_Dear Mr. And Mrs. Weasley,_

_Harry's gone on a mission for the next few weeks, and Mum and Dad can't ever get used to owl post, so I'm sending this to you. Please pass this message on to them. _

_As you all know, I've been working very hard recently. I've started to feel a bit run-down, and decided to take a little holiday. On my travels, I met Alfred. I fell in love with him immediately, and he insists I come to live with him. I have agreed. I'm not coming home, but will stay here with him. _

_I know it seems sudden, but sometimes you just know when something is inescapable. My parents and Harry will likely be upset by this news; please convince them that I'm happy here with Alfred. He's an excellent cook, and his home is beautiful. I shall lack for nothing._

_Crookshanks is at Harry's, so I need someone to pop by and get him. If he could be brought to my parents', I would very much appreciate it. I'm sure Ginny wouldn't mind, but please don't let it be the twins, as they'll put dung-bombs over the doors and fill his bed with itching powder like they did last time._

_Please give my love to everyone, and know you have my heartfelt thanks for helping me in this. And give Ron a big hug for me the next time you visit, and tell him he's always in my thoughts. _

When she was done, she handed it to him and began to write a second letter, this one to her superior at the Ministry, resigning.

"Clever," he commented. "I like your use of the word 'inescapable' and how you state I insist you remain with me. They will think poorly of you, I fear."

"I'm a very clever girl," she replied tartly. "And better that than worrying I'm in a dungeon somewhere."

Alfirin stared down at her a long moment. "I will allow them to reply to you, if you wish," he said abruptly.

"Really?" She felt a huge smile bloom over her face, and he turned away.

"Did I not just say so?" he said irritably. "No, do not hug me," he then continued preemptively. "Ready your letter for delivery."

Hermione stepped back and lowered her arms, returning to the desk and signing her name, then folding the parchment into a square. Alfirin approved the letter to the Ministry as well and gave both to the eagle, who wrapped long, lethal claws securely around the parchments before nodding to the elf once more and taking flight. One, two mighty beats of his powerful wings and he was aloft, disappearing swiftly over the treetops.

"Thank you so much," she said, hating the tremble in her voice. "You don't know what it means to me."

He only said, "Alfred?" His tone was dry and his face, amused.

She grinned. "I think it suits you."

His mouth twitched, but he successfully managed to prevent the smile that threatened. "Come, there is much to do. If we complete early what needs to be accomplished, I will show you some of the tunnels." He left the room, leaving her to follow behind.

Hermione couldn't wait to see more of the labyrinthine caves that riddled the cliff, but even more than her desire to explore was her need to get back to all those lovely books. "And will you give me my first lesson in reading—what was it called?"

"Tengwar," he answered. "Yes, that too."

She practically skipped down the circular stairs beside him at the idea of an entire library of knowledge, hers for the taking as soon as she mastered this new tongue. "Tengwar," she echoed, studying the feel of the unfamiliar syllables on her lips. "Is that the name of the language, or the script? How—"

Her words were cut off by a faint thudding sound. Alfirin stopped, cocking his head in the direction of the noise and motioning for her to be silent.

"Alfirin!" boomed a familiar voice through the doors to the terrace. "Alfirin!"

"Hagrid!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes wide.

Alfirin turned to her. "You will remain here," he instructed. "You will not make your presence known, or you will live to regret it, truly." His green eyes had gone flat and hard, and she knew he was deadly serious. She nodded, and he was gone.

She waited a few moments, then crept silent in his wake down to the tunnel. At the mosaic foyer, she stopped and listened. Faint voices echoed through the stone, and she slipped into the crevice leading to the outside. She halted just before where sunlight streamed onto the cold stone, almost able to taste liberation.

"Why didn't you bring 'Ermione back this morning?" Hagrid was asking. Her heart clenched at how close rescue was, how near to freedom... should she step from the crevice? What would Alfirin do if she did?

_He would kill Hagrid without a moment's compunction,_ whispered the rational part of her mind. _And he might forget his promise not to hurt you._

_But surely Hagrid would be able to defeat him,_ protested her desire to be free. Alfirin was tall, but still easily dwarfed by the half-giant's immense size and strength.

_No_, replied her rationality. _He's got those knives of his, and you saw the look on his face. He'd gut Hagrid like a fish. There is no mercy in him where the Source is concerned._ Hermione slumped back against the hard, damp wall of the crevice and shut her eyes in deep disappointment.

"What makes you think she was here last night?" Alfirin asked, smoothly avoiding having to respond directly.

Hagrid heaved a mighty sigh. "Because she's 'Ermione, that's why," he said. He could not disguise the pride and affection in his tone, and a lump started in her throat. "When she's got her mind set on something, nothing stops her. If she's decided to search for the Source, she'll bloody well search for it until she's found it." He exhaled heavily. "She came to the forest last night, and that's a fact."

"Ah," was Alfirin's reply. "If she were indeed here, I was not aware of it."

There was a long, tense silence. "There's not a thing 'appens in this Forest without you knowing about it, Elf," Hagrid said, and Hermione was shocked to hear the faint snarl in the voice of her gentle friend. She dug her nails into her palms, clenching them to restrain herself from running out to prove to him she was unharmed. He growled, "If you've hurt her—"

"I have not," Alfirin interrupted. "Nor shall I. You have my word."

Another menacing silence, and then, "I'll hold you to that, Elf." Then Hagrid's heavy footsteps crunched in the leaves, fading slowly into the distance. Hermione hurried back to the solar, sitting on the divan and appearing for all the world, when Alfirin returned, as if she'd been ensconced there the entire time.

His smirk, however, told her he knew perfectly well she'd been observing his interaction with Hagrid. "Your friend seems under the impression that you are stubborn," he commented.

Hermione sniffed. "You know once the Weasleys receive my letter, he'll know I'm here." She stood and went to him, staring up at his beautiful face. "What will you do then?"

He was unconcerned. "What I have always done," he replied. "My duty." Not the most helpful answer in the world, but clearly all she'd get out of him. She frowned, but he ignored her, and left the solar for the workroom. "Come, you will help me. 'Tis your fault I am evicted from my bed, after all."

Hermione fumed, but she pushed aside her disappointment at not being discovered by Hagrid to focus instead on her indignation that he would insist on this bed thing. After she'd all but begged him to share with her! Stomping after him, she was brought up short by his mischievous smile—he'd been teasing her. The sight struck her speechless, so he merely tossed a bolt of canvas in her direction. "When you are able to function again, unroll that," he directed.

She unrolled it, her mind already whirling with ideas for how to sidestep his insistence on sleeping apart. A mattress they might make this day, but she was determined to convince him that using his very own bed—with her in it—was vastly preferable. If she was stuck here with him—until she found a way to get the Source and escape—she was determined to make the best of the situation.

She wanted him. Desperately, even. And his actions had indicated that he was not immune to her, as well. Even now, as she handed him the heap of fabric and their eyes met, she could see the need simmering under his calm surface. It would not take much prodding, she felt sure, to turn him into the uninhibited lover of the previous night. She remembered the sinuous motion of his body against hers and felt a hot flush roll slowly through her as she stared at him.

Alfirin had smoothed out the bolt of canvas and cut it onto four long strips, and now began to sew two of them together to make a large, square panel. Hermione wasn't sure what alerted him to her change in mood, but his hands stilled their motion with needle and thread. Slowly, so slowly, he lifted his gaze, and she felt pierced by it.

The fingers of his left hand twitched in her direction before he stilled them. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice barely a breath in the still air of the room. "Why can you not simply let it be?"

"Because I have to," she replied, just as softly. "You've taken everything from me—my friends, my family, my job, my research. I have to have **something**, don't you see?"

"A union between us can end only in despair," he said, and rubbed his hand over his face. "Do you not understand what is at stake here?" There was anguish in his eyes, and a fear that startled her. They were not talking about the Source this time, she realized.

"Explain it to me," Hermione challenged.

Thranduil felt anger eclipse all other emotions he might have felt at that moment. "I will not lay bare my heart and soul to you," he snapped. "You say you love me—"

"I do!" she protested

"—but you know nothing of me," he continued, as if she'd said nothing. "You see my face and form, and desire me, but know nothing of who I am." Needing something to focus on, he took up the needle again and began sewing once more, tiny even stitches that he pulled tight with swift, jerky movements. "You know nothing of who I was, of the world I helped to rule. The battles I fought, the enemies I conquered. You know **nothing**."

He finished the seam with startling speed and tied it off before stabbing the needle rather ferociously into a pincushion. "You insinuate yourself into my life, and make my body betray me, and I will not have it, do you hear?"

Thranduil turned to glare at Hermione, and found her staring at him with wide, startled eyes. "I… I'm sorry," she stammered softly, and slipped around the table to embrace him. He felt the action almost in increments—first her arms came around him, sliding around his ribs until her hands splayed flat on his back, then her body came into full contact with his, aligned all down the front, and her warmth soaked into him.

Finally, her forehead came to rest on his chest, and he felt her shudder. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I didn't know that I was being so demanding to you. I don't want to do anything to trouble you, you know. It's just that I've never met a man who wasn't thrilled to have a woman fling herself at him."

Thranduil closed his eyes and held himself as still as he could. "I am not a man." His fists clenched at his sides in an effort to still his arms from clasping around her. "You would do well to remember that."

"I don't know how else to think of you," she said, and snuggled still deeper against him. _This was far more dangerous than mere sex,_ Thranduil thought, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "And if you won't explain it to me…"

He sighed. "Elves do not make casual joinings. To merge one's body with another, to share pleasure, is a gift from Ilúvatar that must not be dishonored by its squandering. To join without deep sentiment is a slur against such beauty."

"So, having sex without love is bad?" Hermione simplified, and he allowed a tiny smile at her directness.

"Yes," he replied. "You believe you love me, but you cannot. You love what you see, not what you know. And I do not love you."

"What if you did?" she asked, unperturbed by the bluntness of his statement, and smoothed her palms over the expanse of his back. "What if you came to love me?"

Thranduil took a deep breath, feeling the tension seep from him at her ministrations in spite of himself. He had not wanted to reveal anything of himself to her, if it could be helped, but clearly she would persist until she was aware of how her quest to be with him was impossible.__

"I am married," he said slowly, and she stiffened before pulling back. He was unprepared for the jolt of regret he felt at the loss of her softness and warmth against him. "Elves are wed forever, past separation and time and even… death."

Her face, for the first time, bore traces of pain and he hurt on her behalf, knowing he had dashed her hopes. "Your wife is dead?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "Our fëar, or souls, never perish. Eventually, they are reborn into fresh bodies." Thranduil sighed. "Somewhere on the Blessed Isle, my wife walks the earth again, most likely with our son."

Hermione was silent a moment as she pondered this. Then, "But if you are here forever, and there's no hope of you being together again, what's the point?"

_She was nothing if not persistent,_ he thought… _how his kingdom would have benefited from one such as she, so fired by determination and commitment, once she had decided upon a course of action!_

"The point?" He was not sure what she meant.

"Yes, the point." Her tone was a trifle impatient now. "What's the point of keeping to vows like that if there's no hope of being together?"

"Marriage between the Edhel is not a matter of mere vows, Hermione Granger," he told her with a frown. " 'Tis a bonding of essence, a perpetual connection. Husband and wife are always aligned, always linked. It is common for each to hear the other's thoughts, to know the other's emotions."

"Did you have that with your wife?" she asked, curiosity warring with disappointment on her face.

"At first," he replied automatically. Many were the times he had thought back to those first few millennia with his Bellasiel, how in accord they had been. Even after her death, even after he had accepted the role of guardian of the Source, he had felt her through their bond, though it had gradually weakened.

He realized with a start that it had been many years—thousands of years—since the last familiar brush of her mind against his. Not since the end of the Fourth Age had he experienced the peculiar yet comforting sensation of her presence within his head.

They were now at the dawn of the Seventh Age.

Beginning to shake, he wondered at how he could have missed it until now. How could he not have realized before this point? How could he have forgotten her? How—

"Alfirin, what's wrong?" Hermione's voice cut into his despair, and he look up from where he'd been staring at his quaking hands to find her grasping his forearms, face very concerned, but he was incapable of speech. "Alfirin, you're frightening me."

Suddenly, he hated her. Hated that she had disrupted his life, the she had reminded him of how the body's passions burned brightly.

But most of all, he hated her for reminding him of all the things he had been able to forget over the centuries. Now they rushed up to choke him. Anguish at the loss of connection with Bellasiel, grief at the death of his kingdom, sorrow at the passing of the Edhel from these shores, and a stark agony at being parted from Legolas. It had taken him long to deaden himself against the yearning that lived within him for what he had lost.

And she had brought that yearning back.

Rage flared to life within him, threatening to overwhelm him. For a moment, he feared he might lose control and harm her. "Go," he said tightly. "Go to your room, shut the door, and do not come out until I bid you."

Slowly, her startled gaze never wavering from his face, she stepped back. "Alfir-" she began, but he held up a hand for silence.

"Do not speak," he commanded, voice trembling, and she blinked, then left quickly.

And he was left alone, once more.


End file.
